Twice is Circumstance
by Aurilia
Summary: Sequel to Once is Happenstance. It's a couple of months after the naga, and Sam and Dean run into Harry while looking into a 'simple' salt&burn in the Louisiana bayou, only this spirit is anything but simple. Harry Potter xover. M for language, not slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Here's the first chapter for the sequel to 'Once is Happenstance'. The updates for this one are going to run a lot slower than for OiH, simply because I'm working on a NaNoWriMo project (that's National Novel Writer's Month) that's taking most of my energy. At the most, I'd say look for weekly updates. If they happen more often, then that'll be good, but I don't expect it.

This story takes place the October following the events of OiH - and just to clarify things, I'm going with JKR's original intent of Harry being born in 1980, so he's 27, Dean's 28, and Sam's 24. I hope this one lives up to the expectations set forth in OiH.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_1:24 am, October 10, 2007  
219 Martin Lane  
Leeville, Louisiana_

It was supposed to be a simple banishing. Harry had read all the little news articles, read up on the local legends, visited the site… Everything had led him to believe it was a simple ghost a little too hung up on revenge. What the Winchesters would have called a 'salt-and-burn', though Harry preferred to banish spirits like this; but that was the difference between him and the Winchesters – he had his magic available to him, they had to rely on muggle means. It wasn't that one way was better or worse than the other; the Hunters simply did what each knew best.

He had tried the incantation four times before the spirit had thrown him through a wall. _Well, this isn't working._ Harry rolled his eyes at his own obviousness. _Time to pull back and reassess the situation, Potter._ Groaning a little, Harry climbed to his feet, picking slivers out of his palms as he did so. He suddenly stilled when he heard something… off. The ghost was off in a different part of the house – _Really, it's more of a shack_. He slipped up to the Harry-shaped hole in the thin wall and peered around the corner. What he saw made a grin surface on his face.

The spirit was sweeping down a rickety staircase, all skeletal and claw-y and trying like hell to be frightening, only to be hit dead-center by a blast of rock-salt from a pistol-grip shotgun. It dissipated in a cloud of black smoke. Before Harry could make his presence known, Dean Winchester's voice spoke. "Well, hell. No need for the EMF on this one, Sammy. Certainly looked like a torqued-off dead bitch to me."

"Sam," Sam corrected. "And I told you before this could have waited."

"No, it couldn't," Dean argued. "I've told you a thousand times already to give it a rest. I made the only choice I could. I don't regret it – why should you?"

"Um… Because you're my _brother_? What the fuck happened to 'what's dead should stay dead'?"

"We are _so_ not having this conversation again," Dean sounded more than a little irate.

The ghost chose that moment to reappear. "Duck," Sam said, casually firing another blast of rock-salt into it. "'Again'? We've never actually _finished_ it, so how can we be having it _again_?"

"Sammy, give it a fucking _rest_! I told you – there's no getting out of it. You try to save me and you'll just end up…" Dean rammed his fist through the wall opposite of where Harry was watching from the shadows. "Look, let's just burn this bitch and head up to New Orleans for a couple of days, what do you say?" The ghost reappeared again, screeching and wailing, and was shot a second time by Dean.

Harry figured now would be a good time to announce his presence, otherwise he just might end up getting shot, and that was definitely not on his to-do list for the night. "Lumos," he whispered and stepped through the hole in the wall. He didn't flinch back when two shotguns were aimed in his direction. "Fancy meeting you here – I have to wonder how the two of you ever manage to finish a Hunt, what with all your snarking."

"Jesus, Harry. Give a guy a little warning next time." Dean lowered the shotgun and Sam pointed his towards the ceiling.

"Yeah. Good to see you again, though…" Sam eyed Harry's torn t-shirt and the thick layer of dust coating him, "you kinda look like crap." Sam smiled at Harry, but it was a little strained.

"Getting thrown through a wall will do that to anyone. Let's get out of this place – the spirit here's not as simple as I'd thought. I need a bit of a drink before I figure out what to do next, so why don't we go find a beer and catch up, yeah?"

Dean shrugged, "Sounds like a plan, so long as you explain that whole 'not as simple as you thought' bit."

"No problem," Harry crossed the creaking floor and followed the Winchesters outside, slamming the door behind him just as the extremely angry spirit came screaming towards him.

"Where are you staying?" Sam asked just as Dean said, "Where's the Harley?"

"Super 8 in Houma," Harry answered. "Nox, vestus reparo," he waived his wand over his clothes, "Scourgify." Tucking his wand back in its holster on his left forearm, he paused by the black Chevy Impala parked on the street and grabbed his jacket off the decrepit picket fence where he'd left it before venturing into the house. "And I apparated down here tonight - my bike's still at the hotel."

"That's your spinny-disappearing-thing, right?" Dean dug his keys out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the Impala, grinning at how Harry had cleaned and repaired his clothes.

"That it is, mate. How about you two, where are you staying?" Harry slid into the car's back seat after Dean unlocked the door.

"Cut Off," Dean stated with a little grimace.

Sam snickered and closed the passenger-side door, "Dean's a little upset that the closest lodging is a B&B. He has something against good coffee, I think."

"It ain't the coffee, Sam, it's the doilies and the lace," Dean shuddered melodramatically and started the car. "So, Harry. What's so unusual about this ghost?"

As Dean navigated the short street back to the main road, the sound of Metallica's Black album playing quietly on the speakers, Harry started telling the brothers what he'd learned about the spirit inhabiting the small, ramshackle, two-story house at 219 Martin Lane.

"As far as I was able to find, the ghost back there was, once upon a time, Justine Espoir. Local legend has it that when her fiancé failed to return from Germany in 1918, she doused herself in chicken blood and walked into the swamp – suicide by alligator. According to the backlog of newspapers in the Lafourche Parish Public Library up in Thibodaux, however, Justine Espoir died of influenza before she ever had the chance to find out that her betrothed wasn't coming home." Harry removed his silver cigarette case from his jeans pocket.

"Dude! No smoking in my car!" Harry sighed and snapped the case shut while Dean made a right turn onto Old Highway One, headed north towards a town that more on offer than fresh shellfish. "If that's so, then why's she here? If her boy-toy was already dead when she died, then she wouldn't've stuck around. And if she's been here for almost ninety years, why haven't there been any spook-related problems until the last two months?"

Harry shrugged, "I honestly don't know right now. I do know that I tried banishing it – standard anti-necromantic spell, you know? One I've used successfully more times than I can count. I tried four damn times and it had absolutely no effect."

"What could be causing the problem, do you think?" Sam asked.

"There's a promising-looking pub up in Golden Meadow, by the way. As to why the spell went wonky, I'm not too sure. The last time I had a problem like this, it was because I was in an area delineated as an anti-magic zone. _That_ obviously isn't the case here, because I was able to charm the lock on the door open, and my light spell worked just fine."

"Golden Meadow?" Dean nudged the Impala's speed up as they left Leeville behind them.

"Yeah, about ten miles up the road. You said there've been some spook-related problems lately?"

Dean nodded, his fingers tapping along with the drums on the cassette. "You didn't know?"

Harry shook his head, "I only read the papers and whatnot when I'm looking into creatures. There's a variation on the four-corners spell that can home in on spirits. I spend most winters either here along the Gulf or over in southern California and tend to do little else than these simple banishings until the snow melts further north. I had quite enough of winter growing up in the UK."

Dean chuckled a little, "Yeah, I don't much like snow, either."

"So, what have you found out about the ghost?"

Sam rolled his window down a little; for all that it was the middle of October _and_ the middle of the night, they were in the southernmost reaches of the Louisiana bayou and it was muggy as all hell, even if it wasn't all that hot. "Pretty much the same things as you – name, local history, death. Didn't know that part about her fiancé being dead, though. Where'd you find that?"

"I checked into the records at that church just up the street from her house."

"Other than that, there have been five people killed in that house in the last eight weeks."

"Any connection?"

Dean snorted, "Hell yeah, they're all connected. Seems like most of the people in this part of the country are all cousins – it's worse than those jokes about Arkansas and Tennessee."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's not _that_ bad, Dean." Turning a little to talk to Harry's face, Sam continued. "They are, or rather, _were_ the last living members of the ghost's family. A fifty year-old man who had been her grand-nephew, his daughter and her husband, and a brother/sister pair from a slightly different branch of the family. The boy was killed first, back during the third week of August. According to the newspaper, his friends had dared him to spend the night in the old house. The sister was killed two days later. No one's really sure why she went into the house, but she did."

"What about the kids' parents?"

"Died in an airplane crash a year ago," Harry didn't know why, but Dean had an 'I-told-you-so' tone in his voice.

"And the others?"

Sam shook his head at his brother. "The grand-nephew, we know, had been a lifetime sleepwalker. He lived a couple of streets away from the ghost's house, and the official cause of death was an accident. The coroner said he figured the man had started having bad dreams because of the kids' deaths, and sleepwalked himself into the house and tripped on the stairs – this was the second week of September. Just last week, the daughter and her husband flew in to finalize the estate and completely up and disappeared. No bodies, no sign of anything unusual, other than the fact they were just gone."

"What was the name of that bar you mentioned?" Dean asked, slowing the Impala to match the speed limit sign posted just inside the city limits of Golden Meadow.

"Don't recall, but it should be just a block or two up here on the right," Harry replied.

Dean spotted the distinctive neon of a bar just as Harry said that, and pulled the car into the rather deserted parking lot. "So, tomorrow we should see about checking out the house in the daylight."

Harry nodded, "Would probably be a good idea." He pulled his jacket on to hide his wand holster before following the Winchesters into the bar.

* * *

_2:05 am, October 10, 2007  
Sharky's  
Golden Meadow, Louisiana_

After locating a corner booth in the small, smoky, nearly empty bar, Sam ordered a Coke, Dean got a bottle of beer, and Harry requested a bottle of bourbon. Dean looked from the full bottle of Kentucky booze to Harry and back with an incredulous look on his face. "Going for alcohol poisoning?"

Harry chuckled and filled the scotch glass the waitress had left with the bottle. He downed it in a couple of swallows, "Not in the least, mate. I have an insanely high tolerance for all poisons, alcohol included."

"How's that?" Sam asked, popping the tab on his can of soda.

"Got bit by a basilisk when I was twelve," Harry replied, refilling the glass. "The bite was healed by a phoenix's tears, and the tears have remained in my system all this time. It's a bitch – I have to really _try_ to get drunk. Found that out when I tried drowning some bad memories just before I left home. On the upside though, I never get sick."

"This would be the same basilisk you mentioned having dealt with before when we were researching that gig up in Iowa, right?" Dean took a swallow of his beer.

Harry nodded, "Yeah, one and the same. Damn thing was loose in my school… No one else was doing anything about it. Some of the students had been petrified by it and there was talk about shutting the school down. I wasn't about to let that happen – Hogwarts was my home, and I really didn't fancy telling my relatives why I was back at their place ahead of schedule – they weren't all that fond of me, nor I of them. My friend, Ron, and I went looking for it. We weren't alone; we had our Defense professor with us – albeit at wand-point. Things went from bad to worse when the professor tried obliviating us with Ron's wand – which had been broken earlier in the year – and the spell backfired. I got separated from Ron and the professor and time was of the essence. Ron's little sister was being held hostage in the basilisk's den, and I… Well, I couldn't just leave her there."

"What's 'obliviating'? You've mentioned it before," Sam asked.

"The obliviate spell removes a portion of a person's memory." Realizing they were no longer in the car, Harry retrieved his cigarette case and lit one with a small smile of satisfaction.

"Oh, like the neuralizers in Men in Black," Dean grinned.

Harry shrugged and finished off a third glass of bourbon. "Dunno, mate. Never saw that one." He sat the glass down and leaned back in the bench seat of the booth; he liked talking about things with Hunters – they rarely asked for more information than they'd been given. _Hunters and soldiers both know that bad shit happens, and they know that no one wants to have to relive their worst memories just to satiate someone else's curiosity_. "I suppose it doesn't matter much. From what I recall, you're pretty accurate with those flicks of yours."

Dean grinned, "Yeah… Too much late-night cable, I suppose." The three hunters spent an hour or so catching up and just talking before Dean excused himself to go to the bathroom.

As soon as Dean was out of earshot, Sam took a breath and let it out slowly. Harry cocked his head to the side and really _looked_ at the younger Winchester. "Something's bothering you."

Sam nodded, "Yeah, there is."

"Want to tell me, or is it none of my bloody business?"

"What do you know of demons?"

Harry shrugged a little, "They are magical beings normally bound to the Abyssal plane and not something I would ever want to tangle with, even if others don't share the sentiment."

"What about deals?"

"With demons?" Sam nodded. Harry ran a hand through his hair, "They have rules, and the rules can vary with the type of demon dealt with. They don't do deals for nothing, and prefer payment in souls – which is probably the only reason why the Dark Lord never tried that avenue in his quests for immortality. What demon would grant that sort of power, knowing they'd never collect the soul in question?" Harry glanced towards the short hall across the room that led to the bathrooms. "What's this about?"

"Dean did something phenomenally _stupid_, and I've been looking for a way to fix it."

Harry's gaze darted back to Sam. Sam was tense, pale around the edges. "I would have thought, what with you two's line of work, that he'd know better. What was the deal for?"

"Me."

"Come again? Look, mate, I can't help if I don't know what I'm dealing with. Why don't you start at the beginning and make sense this time, yeah?"

Sam turned his head around to look for Dean. His brother was just emerging from the hallway. "Not right now – Dean's told me to drop it. He thinks there isn't anything he can do."

"Fatalistic much?"

Sam forced a short laugh, "Something like that."

"We'll figure something out tomorrow," Harry said, just loud enough that Dean, who was now only a few steps away from their table, could hear him.

Sam caught on to what Harry was doing and nodded, "Yeah, there's got to be something either in the local records that we've overlooked or something at the house."

"Thought we already agreed to do that?" Dean said and then gestured to a pool table not far from where they were sitting. "Either of you up for a game of pool?"

Harry smirked, "Sorry, mate. I don't play billiards. Darts, though… Those are a completely different story."

"I can do darts," Dean replied, echoing Harry's grin. "Come on; let's see what you've got."

"What do you say, Sam? Want to see me beat the tar out of your brother?"

Sam shrugged a little, "I don't think it'll be as easy as you think, but why not? I could do with a laugh."

The three Hunters moved their drinks to a table that had a good view of the dartboard. "What are we playing for?" Dean asked while Sam got a set of darts from the bartender.

"Surely you don't need cash already?" Harry reached into the inner pocket on his black leather biker jacket.

Dean shrugged, "Not really – thanks for that, by the way – it's just that I don't play solely for fun. It makes sure the other person isn't just fucking around."

Setting a small black case – it looked to be about the same size as a glasses case – on the table, Harry nodded. "I suppose I can understand that. How about we wager favors?"

"Favors? That some weird Brit thing I don't know about?"

Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder and handed him three metal-tipped darts that had metallic blue fletching. "These were the best ones he had, and playing for favors is something we used to do in school. It's like… say I was playing for favors with someone who had some of the same classes I had. If I won and then wanted to skip class the next day, I could call in the favor and the person who lost would tape the lecture for me or something like that."

"Exactly," Harry punctuated his statement by flipping open his case. "What type of tips?"

"Metal," Dean replied, looking over Harry's shoulder. The little case contained eight dart-shafts, a miniature Ziploc of fletching in different colors, and another baggie of tips in metal, plastic, magnetic, and what appeared to be Velcro. He let out a low whistle. "Damn, Harry. That's quite a kit you've got there."

Harry let out a little chuckle, "Like I implied, Dean, prepare for an abject lesson in humility."

"And he's modest, too!" Sam quipped in a tone reminiscent of an infomercial announcer. Sam shut up at the identical looks of 'WTF?' leveled at him. "So… Will I need to keep score, then?"

"If you would," Harry replied, assembling three darts with the same precision and speed Sam normally saw when Dean stripped a gun for cleaning. "I would imagine we should stick to straight darts for now, yeah?"

"Why not? Play from 501." Dean looked over the darts Sam had retrieved from the bartender. _They'll do, I suppose._ He stepped up to the line and threw them. He hit the inner bull's-eye twice and the outer portion of it once. "125," He stated with a smug grin.

Harry chuckled, "Not bad, mate, but step aside." After Dean had retrieved his three darts from the board, Harry took a deep breath and held it for a moment. He let it out as he threw the first dart. It hit the triple-ring of the twenty segment. His next dart hit nearly the same place. The last dart was always the hardest, as Dean could attest. The fletching of the first two always made it hard to get a clear flight line when aiming for such a small target. Harry focused in on the exposed corner of the segment where it butted up against the area for the one. It hit in its place with a satisfying_ thunk_. "That's 180 to me."

Sam noted the score on a bar napkin and had to grin at Dean's expression. During Dean's next turn, he managed to hit the inner bull's-eye all three times. However, Harry reenacted his first turn and scored another 180 points. Dean managed a score of 170 for his third time at the line. Harry waited mock-impatiently as Dean collected his darts. "If you think it'd help, mate, you're welcome to use my kit."

Dean just glared at him. "Stuff it, shorty."

"Suit yourself," Harry stepped up to the line again. He hit two triple-twenties.

"You know, if he hits a triple-seven, he's going to win," Sam mentioned conversationally. Dean looked at Sam as though to say, 'No shit, Sherlock.'

Harry, who had first learned to throw darts at a muggle pub in London during a football match which resulted in spawning a fistfight among the patrons of the pub, ignored the comment. He threw the last dart with a flick of his wrist. "And that's game," he said with a smile.

"Rematch," Dean said, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked intimidating, but he was biting his tongue to keep from laughing – Harry was a damn fine shot and he couldn't help but wonder how accurate he'd be with a gun.

The second game was closer than the first – Dean only lost by ten points that time around. Sam stepped in for a couple of games against Harry and managed to hold his own – the first game was a dead tie and the second Sam lost by a single point.

After the darts were put away, Dean cracked open a second beer and asked Harry, "So, where'd you learn to play?"

Harry poured the last of his bourbon into the glass and took a swallow before answering. "One of my instructors thought it was a good way to build accuracy in a non-lethal environment. Of course, his idea of non-lethal and mine were decidedly different." Harry leaned forward and turned his head to the left. He lifted his messy black hair off his neck, revealing a thick scar that twisted up into his hair. "The pub he took me to was a rather rowdy place, especially when a game was on. Football – um, soccer, I mean. Anyway, things got said, fists started to fly, and before I knew it, I was hit by a Guinness bottle." Harry sat back in the booth and laughed. "Found out later it was in that same bar, during a similar fight, mind you, that my teacher lost an eye. I think I was the only person he ever told that to – everyone else assumed he'd gotten it in his line of work. He was an auror – wizarding police. And with him being who he was, I ended up with a three-hour lecture on being aware of my surroundings _at all times_. By the time he was done, it was too late to get the gash healed by a mediwitch, hence the scar. He justified it as telling me that it'd make a good reminder to never let my guard down."

Dean smiled, though it was tinged with something bittersweet, "Sounds like your teacher and our dad were two of a kind. I got the same lecture, only it was some flying glass and a poltergeist."

"And the scar? Or do I want to know?"

"Missed my right kidney by that much," he held up his thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart.

"I don't remember that one," Sam said, draining the last of his soda.

"It was just after I started Hunting with him regular – I think you were fourteen. Wasn't that the year you did that science-fair project on electro-whateveritwas?"

"Electromagnetism, Dean. I know you know what it was – hell, you helped me more on that project than the library did." Something suddenly occurred to Sam. _Dean may like to pretend to be clueless most of the time, and I know he'd rather watch television than read a book, but… He's not stupid. He built our EMF reader out of a _walkman_, for Christ's sake. Why's he so intent on making people think he's an idiot?_

* * *

_12:00 pm, October 10, 2007  
Château Rochelle B&B  
Cut Off, Louisiana_

It was relatively easy for Harry to find out where Dean and Sam were staying – there was only one B&B in Cut Off, after all. Juggling a box of Krispy Kremes, two large Styrofoam glasses of coffee, and a bag of energy drinks he kicked the door of a modern, two-story house instead of knocking. An elderly woman wearing a sunshine-yellow pants-suit answered. "May I help you?" she had a light Creole accent.

Harry smiled charmingly at the woman, "Yes, ma'am. I'm here to see a couple of friends of mine, Dean and Sam?"

"Those charming young men?" Harry nodded. "The 'brothers'," she even made air-quotes with her fingers, "are staying in room three."

Harry snickered as he followed the woman into the house, "Ma'am, they really _are_ brothers. I don't think any couple would last all that long with the sheer amount of bickering those two do."

The woman shook her head, "Don't think you can fool me, son. I've seen my fair share of life, you know."

Harry's snicker grew into a genuine laugh, "I'll be sure to tell them that, ma'am."

The woman retreated into an officey-looking area near the front door, "Their room is just down that hall," she pointed to a hallway to Harry's left.

"Thank you, ma'am." Still chuckling, Harry found room three and repeated his kicking knock.

Dean answered the door, bleary-eyed and scowling. "Lady, look, I don't give a damn how good you think your cooking is –"

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Harry interrupted. "I brought provisions."

"Coffee?"

"Of course."

Dean seized the two Styrofoam glasses, handing one to Sam, who was sitting in an armchair not far from the door, poking through something on the laptop. "Morning, Harry."

"Sam." Harry sat the box of donuts on the dresser and peered over Sam's shoulder. "What have you found for me?"

Dean shook his head, muttering something about 'freaks who don't know what it means to get some sleep' and rummaged around in the donut box. Sam ignored his brother and removed the lid from his coffee, "Nothing new – just what I told you last night. Kaleb LeBlanc died first on his dared trip, his sister, Caroline, died next. Then Jacob Espoir 'sleepwalked' to his death. Last week, Michael Greengrass and Lorraine Greengrass, nee Espoir, were killed…" Sam trailed off when he noticed Harry's expression. "What?"

"'Greengrass'? You're sure that's the name?" Harry asked, his voice tight.

Sam nodded, "Yeah… What's up?"

"I went to school with a Greengrass. Can you tell me where that Michael fellow was from, originally?"

Sam shrugged, "Yeah. Give me an hour or so."

Dean swallowed the last bite of a jelly-filled bear-claw. "What's got you so uptight?"

"A girl I went to school with was a Greengrass. Daphne. She was a Slytherin – and though I, personally, don't believe in the House making someone evil – her family was definitely bad news. I know for a fact that her father worked for the Death Eaters. Her mother did, too, but refused to be Marked." Harry retrieved a can of Monster from his shopping bag and sat on the corner of the room's only bed.

Dean finished off his glass of coffee and tossed the empty container in a trash can. "Okay, three questions. First, 'Slytherin'?"

"My school was a boarding school. The students were separated into different Houses – dorms – Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor. What House you went to depended on your personality. Slytherins tended to be cunning and ambitious and the House as a whole was thought of as the 'evil' house – regardless of the fact that there were just as many good folk from that House as there were bad, same with all the Houses." Harry sighed. "If it had been up to me, the students would have just been randomly assigned a dorm, but it wasn't so they weren't."

"Second question, 'Death Eaters'?"

Harry scrubbed a hand across his face and absently noticed that he'd forgotten to shave that morning. "Remember me telling you about that Dark Lord I had to deal with?" Dean nodded. "The Death Eaters were his followers. Evil, twisted, and rather sadistic for the most part."

"Last question, 'Marked'?"

"Each of the Death Eaters were given the choice to be Marked by the Dark Lord. Most of them took the option as a way to show their lord and master their loyalty. The Dark Mark, or morsmordre, had two main uses. The first was a way to mark specific crimes as having been done by the Death Eaters – they would conjure the morsmordre to hang in the sky over the site of whatever atrocity they'd committed. The second use was a brand on a Death Eater's left forearm. It darkened from normal scar-pale to a bright red depending on how powerful the Dark Lord was at any given time and would burn black when the Dark Lord called his followers to him."

"So you think this Greengrass dude has some connection to your evil dead man?"

Harry shook his head, "I honestly don't know for sure, but my instincts are screaming at me that there's a connection. I was once told I had good instincts – and, truth be told, they've only let me down twice."

"Yeah, Hunters have to have good instincts, else they don't Hunt for long." Dean grabbed another donut and looked over at his brother. "How's the research coming, Sammy?"

"Sam," Sam automatically corrected. "Not too well. I'm finding bits and pieces, but nothing for sure yet. Why don't you call your CIA friend, Harry?"

Harry finished off his can of energy drink and cracked open another. "I would, but my phone is currently recovering from an incident with an angry water spirit…"

Dean chuckled and handed Harry his cell. "You're hard on phones, aren't you?"

Harry shrugged, "Not really – I only go through five or six a year."

"Dude, I've had the same phone for three years. Sam's had his for four. You're hard on phones."

Harry shrugged and took Dean's cell, "Whatever, mate." He dug Leanne MacRucky's number out of his wallet and dialed.

She answered on the third ring, "Dean Winchester?"

"Nope, Leanne. Sorry to disappoint, but it's Harry."

"What happened to your cell _this_ time?"

"It lost a fight with a water elemental."

"Only you, Harry," she replied with a little laugh. "What can I do for you?"

Harry grinned, "Ooh! I'm wounded, Leanne! I call you up and you automatically assume I need something. Can't I just call to say 'hello' every now and again?"

"You_ can_, but you never _do_. Besides, you're with the Winchester brothers, so I have to assume you boys are after something."

"Should I be frightened that you seem to know me so well? Or that you recognized Dean's number?"

"Nope and no. The boys have called me every now and again over the last few months when they needed information that their Hunting contacts didn't know. So, what's going on?"

"I need information on the Greengrass family from Devon. Specifically if a Michael Greengrass ever lived in the US."

"No problem, Harry. Hang on a moment, and I'll see what the computers here have to say. Might take ten minutes, tops."

"Take your time, Leanne. Thanks."

"Well?" Dean asked when Harry fell silent.

"I'm on hold. She's checking. Has Sam found anything?"

"Not really," Sam replied. "Just a marriage certificate from Orange County, California. I'm looking into immigration records now."

After five minutes of near-silence – the only sounds Sam's typing and Dean humming under his breath – Leanne's voice finally reappeared on the phone. "You still there, Harry?"

"Yeah, Leanne. What did you find?" Harry grabbed the pen and pad of stationary off the bedside table.

"Michael Damien Greengrass, born August ninth, 1972, to Caelum and Rachel Greengrass of Devon. Pureblood family, though he was a squib. Older brother to Daphne Greengrass, born May thirtieth, 1980. Immigrated to the US in January of 1995, married Lorraine Espoir on April tenth, 1998, and died October second, 2007. No children. Caelum and Rachel Greengrass are reported as having been AK'd on July first of this year. Contrary to pureblood custom, Caelum and Rachel left their entire estate to Michael, despite his squib status. No records of Daphne exist after her Hogwarts certification in June of 1998. This help?"

"I hope so, Leanne. I'll give you a call when I find out for sure. Thanks again, love."

"Anytime, Harry. And remember – you _can_ call me just to say hi every now and again, you know!"

"I know, I know. Talk with you later." Harry snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Dean.

"Find anything useful?"

"Don't know for sure if it's all that useful, but I now know for a fact that Michael Greengrass _is_ the older brother of the girl I went to Hogwarts with."

Sam gave up on the laptop and shut it down. "So, are we going to go check out the house again?"

* * *

_3:37 pm, October 10, 2007  
219 Martin Lane  
Leeville, Louisiana_

Dean slapped a mosquito that had landed on the side of his neck. "Dude, I hate mosquitoes. Why couldn't we have found a job somewhere other than a swamp?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Coming here was _your_ idea, Dean. I was all for checking that lead on a possession up in Chicago, if you recall."

"Whatever. Next time I have the bright idea to visit a swamp, just hit me."

"I'm holding you to that."

"Gentlemen, could we please can the arguments for the time being?" Harry punctuated his comment by slamming the door to 319 Martin Lane shut behind them.

"Sure," Dean grinned. "So… Any idea what we're looking for?"

"Anything out of the ordinary, I would imagine." Harry removed his wand from his holster. "A specter doesn't just show up ninety years after its death with no reason, after all."

"I'll check upstairs," Sam volunteered.

"I'll look over this way," Dean indicated the direction of the kitchen.

Harry shrugged and set to examining the entrance hallway and the parlor.

After about ten minutes of fruitless searching, Sam was just about ready to call it a day. There had been several places the EMF had spiked, but that was to be expected. They already knew the place was haunted. _Harry has a point, though. A ghost doesn't just show up after ninety years. There has to be a reason._ He was finishing up checking out the last of three tiny bedrooms when he caught sight of something half-hidden by a peeling curl of faded floral wallpaper. "Dean! Harry! I think I've got something here!" he shouted, reaching out with one hand to remove the paper.

Heavy footfalls signaled Dean's arrival in the room while a _crack_ indicated that Harry had simply bypassed the physical exertion and used his spinny-disappearing-reappearing-thing. "What's up?" Dean asked.

Sam finished removing the curl of paper, "There's something written on the wall behind this wallpaper."

"Move," Harry said. Sam stepped aside. Harry leveled his wand at the chunk of wall that had thick, black, angular markings on it. "Papyrus evanesco." The wallpaper on that entire wall shimmered into white smoke and disappeared.

"Neat trick," Dean murmured, stepping up beside Sam to examine the marks. Harry repeated the charm on all three remaining walls, another variation on the threadbare carpet covering the floor, and still another on the ceiling. All four walls had writing on them, and the floor had nine concentric circles with the same things written in each circle, the innermost circle housing an interwoven seven-point star. "Aren't these Norse runes?" Dean asked, still looking at the first wall with Sam.

Harry looked up, "Yeah, they are. The west wall is Latin, south has hieroglyphs, and the east is either Japanese or Chinese – I can't tell which."

At the mention of Latin, both of the Winchester boys turned to their left. Harry chuckled, "Don't worry about translating it. I can do that."

"You know Latin?"

"You sound surprised, Sam. Haven't you noticed what language most of my spells are in? I had to learn it in order to finish up my Hogwarts education."

Though Sam and Dean could read Latin phonetically, they were far from fluent in the language. "So, what's it say?" Dean gestured to the wall.

"It's a spell, and I'd be willing to bet money that it's repeated verbatim on all four walls."

"Would you just translate the damn thing already?"

Harry chuckled a little before clearing his throat. Sam quickly rummaged in a pocket until he came up with a memo book and a pen.

_By knot of one, the spell's begun  
Failed fate shun, blood shall run.  
By knot of two, it cometh true  
A tree of yew, within view.  
By knot of three, so mote it be  
Soul fly free, come to me.  
By knot of four, power I'll store  
Through the door, to my core.  
By knot of five, the spell's alive  
Their sins shrive, and right my dive.  
By knot of six, the spell is fixed  
Into the mix, of six and six and six.  
By knot of seven, events I'll leaven  
Bar them from heaven, home, and Devon.  
By knot of eight, it will be fate  
Salvation too late, cost cut-rate.  
By knot of nine, what's done is mine._

Before the reverberation of the last word could fade, a bolt of rust-red light flared up out of the center of the star on the floor and hit Harry in the back of the head. He dropped to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

**A/N2:** Like I said, the updates for this one are going to be longer between than for 'Once is Happenstance'. I don't recall ever mentioning this in OiH, but I grew up in Knoxville, Iowa, and natives of that area will recognize that I used both real and fictional places in that story. In this one, all I have to say is that I've been to this region before (it was one of my favorite vacations growing up) but it was a good ten years ago, so though the town names are real enough, the actual businesses and addresses the characters go to definitely aren't. 

Drop me a review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** So here's chapter two - I hope it's not as confusing reading it as it was trying to write it was - an original fiction piece I'm doing for NaNo, the next chapter for All at Once, and this all tried to blend together in my head. I had to actually re-write a small section because I was writing far too late in the day and ended up with a conversation between Harry and one of my OC's from the NaNo project. It was amusing, but didn't belong in this story at all. Once NaNo's done, I may post it as a humor one-shot, if I can figure out a way to explain the OC's history without it getting to be too much. Enough with my rambling, though. On with the story!

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_4:10 pm, October 10, 2007  
Old Highway One  
Louisiana_

The Impala was headed north, ignoring most traffic laws as it did so. For what was maybe only the third time since Dean started driving it regularly, the tape deck wasn't playing anything. Sam and Dean both were peering out the windshield, keeping an eye out for road hazards. Harry was sprawled across the back seat.

With a gasp, Harry bolted upright, "Stop the car."

Dean glanced in the rear-view mirror, saw the pale green tinge to Harry's complexion, and stopped the car with a screech of brakes. Harry fumbled for the door handle, stumbled out across the pavement, sprawled in the brush next to the road, and lost his breakfast on a pitcher plant. He scrubbed a shaky hand across his mouth and rocked back onto his heels.

He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, "Whoa there. You okay?"

Harry nodded, "Just give me a moment."

"What happened?" Dean asked, making sure to keep his voice low because if Harry _didn't_ have a headache, he'd eat his boots.

"How long was I out?"

"Not long… Maybe fifteen minutes. Just long enough for me to get you in the car and for us to go maybe thirty miles."

Harry nodded, blanched as he felt something pull at his skin, sending a twinging pain along his nerves, and retched again. _Not good not good not good. Fuck. _When he finished, he stood up, swaying on his feet and stripped off his motorcycle jacket. "Easy there," Dean reached out to steady Harry, but Harry stumbled out of reach.

"Don't touch me!" He pulled ineffectively on his t-shirt collar. "Off, off. Off, damn it!"

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam. Sam shrugged and shook his head slowly, his expression revealing that he had absolutely no idea what Harry was doing, either. Dean tried to help Harry with his shirt, but Harry pulled away. "NO! DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

Dean winced at the volume Harry was capable of, _Who'd've thought it from such a shrimpy guy? _With a loud tearing noise, the dark blue t-shirt ripped jaggedly down one side. Harry threw the remains of the shirt on the ground before stumbling back over to the Impala. Dean picked up Harry's jacket and followed. "What's wrong, Harry?"

Using the car's shiny surface as a mirror, Harry crouched near the front fender and twisted to examine his back. A large circular black spot, approximately three inches across, was centered on his spine between his shoulder blades. The skin surrounding it was puffy and red. A row of black tattoos on Harry's lower back didn't go unnoticed by Dean, but the tattoos looked to have been there a while. The spot was obviously a new acquisition. "Fuck me," Harry whispered, collapsing onto the pavement.

Dean knelt close to Harry, but not touching him. "What is that?"

Sam got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side to get a better view of what was going on. Harry sat, his back to the car, with his arms wrapped around his knees. Leaning a little, Sam could see the spot between Harry's shoulders.

"It's a fucking power-leech, is what it is. Don't touch me," Harry flinched from where Dean was reaching out, Harry's jacket in hand.

"I wasn't going to. Take your jacket."

"Set it down first." Dean sat it on the road. Harry waited for Dean to move his hand back to his side before picking up the leather coat and rummaging around in a pocket for his cigarette case and lighter. His hands were still shaking as he lit up.

"What's a power-leech?" Sam asked.

"It's a fucking death-sentence, unless we can find who set the spell in the house."

"How's it work?" Sam and Dean asked the question simultaneously.

"It blocks my magic even as it drains me. A class-five magical parasite – it can't be removed without killing me, and it'll kill me if it stays. Once it's drained all my magic, it'll start draining my life."

"How long does it take?" Dean had to stop himself from reaching towards Harry. The wizard may have only been a year younger than him, but at the moment he looked more like a scared kid than anything else.

"Four, five days tops for the magic. A further twelve hours or so for the rest." Harry flicked the ashes off his cigarette. "By the end of the third day, though… I won't be of much mind to care anymore."

"What do you mean by that?" Sam sat on the Impala's fender.

"Convulsions, high fever, delirium, unconsciousness… All that fun stuff. I'll be lucky if I know my own name by this time on Saturday."

"Why don't you want anyone to touch you?" Dean asked, suddenly recalling the fact that he'd already done so.

"That's how the damn thing spreads – once the trigger-spell creates the first leech, the only way they can reproduce is through touch; and before you ask, yes, these things can and will feed on muggles. All life has magic to it, muggles just don't have a high enough concentration to be able to actively direct and control it." A thought suddenly occurred to Harry. "Just who put me in the car?"

"Do they always appear in the same place?" Sam asked, leveling a concerned glance at Dean.

Harry nodded. Dean got to his feet and removed his own t-shirt. His back was clean – no leech. "What the _hell_? That isn't _possible_. I've seen these things used before… Why didn't it spread?"

Dean shrugged, "No idea. This is more your area than ours."

Sam thought he knew the reason, though. "Look, standing around here isn't helping matters any. Why don't we head back to the B&B or go to Harry's hotel to finish talking before someone comes along and runs us over?"

Dean put his shirt back on, "Sounds good."

"My place – I need to look up some more information and all my stuff is at the Super 8 in Houma."

* * *

_5:24 pm, October 10, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

The room was nice, done all in a pale blue-green and light woods, with anonymous landscapes on the walls. The motel was new enough that there weren't any mysterious stains on the carpet, holes in the walls, or any of the other trademarks of cheap lodging. It was a little cluttered with Harry's things, though. Dean recognized the wooden box sitting on the dresser between the saddlebag and the television as the one that contained dozens of miscellaneous jars, vials, and bottles. Another wooden box – this one much larger, just one size down from an old-fashioned traveling trunk – sat on the floor next to a small refrigerator. A gray duffle full of clothes was on the suitcase stand next to the door for the bathroom. A backpack sat on the floor under the room's table occasionally being kicked by Harry, who still wasn't quite steady on his feet, while he searched through his computer. Dean was thumbing through one of the half-dozen or so books Harry had removed from the trunk, as was Sam. The trunk contained hundreds of books, all roughly the size of a matchbook, but they automatically grew to their proper size when removed from the trunk. Dean had to wonder just what was in all those books and if Harry had actually read all of them. Sam was just curious as to why Harry carried them all around with him – surely someone with the type of cash Harry had available to him could afford to have a home base.

"Why don't you call Leanne?" Dean asked, squinting a little to read the cramped handwriting in the book he was reading. "Wouldn't she have someone she could call for you that could help with all this? 'Cause, man, I gotta admit, this is a little out of my league."

Harry shook his head, "She won't be able to help. The US is far more strict on experimental breeding of magical creatures than Europe is, and power-leeches were created to use as a weapon during the war with Voldemort." As soon as the name of the Dark Lord passed Harry's lips, he flinched violently and fell out of the chair. "God damn it! Fucking inconcessufamens!"

"What?" Confusion wasn't a new experience for the Winchester brothers, but that didn't mean they had to like it any.

Slowly climbing back into the chair, Harry explained, "The inconcessufamens spell is normally used by parents to punish children for swearing. It gives them a little shock, like static, every time they try to use words their parents don't want them to use. The fucking Dark Lord dicked with the spell and hit me with it, so now it's a permanent addition – I can't say his fucking name without being hit with a blast of pain. It can't be removed, so I'm fucking stuck with it. It hasn't really been much of an issue – most witches and wizards would rather I had never used his name to begin with."

Sam nodded, understanding that there was likely no way he'd ever truly comprehend the whole magic-is-real thing and so decided to take a page out of Dean's book and just roll with it for the time being. "If this leech is a European thing, isn't there someone there who would be able to help?"

Harry grimaced, "There is someone who managed to figure out how to kill the damn thing without harming himself… But I don't know if he'd be willing to help me."

Dean snickered, "What did you do, steal his girlfriend?"

Shaking his head, Harry replied, "No. My dad did."

Sam and Dean both looked up from their books. "You've got to be kidding."

"Not hardly," Harry glanced over at the brothers and sighed. "Look, it's complicated. Suffice it to say that I am _not_ his favorite person and if he had managed to keep his fucking mouth shut just one time, I probably wouldn't fucking exist."

"Still," Sam said, his voice soft. "It couldn't hurt to ask, could it?"

"Sasquatch has a point – the worst he could do is say no, and we'd be right back where we started," Dean agreed.

Harry laid his head on his arms on the table. "Fine. Do it. Time is short."

"What's his name? Phone number?" Dean asked, retrieving his cell from his pocket.

Harry laughed, the sound muffled in his arms. "Snape doesn't have a phone. You'll have to owl him."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Dean stepped out onto the walkway and leaned against the railing. Looking down at his car, parked next to Harry's motorcycle, he flipped his phone open and called Leanne.

After four rings, a groggy voice answered, "This had better be good, Harry – I had just managed to get to sleep after two days."

"It's Dean."

"Oh, sorry. What did you need?"

"It's about Harry, Leanne."

"This doesn't sound good. What happened?" Leanne's voice was instantly more awake.

"Job's going south in a hell of a hurry – Harry got hit by something and now has what he called a 'power-leech' on his back."

"A power… Fucking hell. How did one of those show up _here_?"

"Hell if I know. What do I do?"

"Um…" There was the sound of footsteps on Leanne's end of the line, followed by some papers rustling. "Here it is," indistinct murmuring and more papers rustling followed. "Harry's not going to like this."

"He mentioned someone by the name of Snape. Said the man knew how to get rid of the leech."

"Ha! I would imagine so. I'll contact him. How long ago did the leech show up?"

Dean checked the clock on his phone. "A little under two hours ago."

There was some more murmuring that Dean couldn't catch. "Okay – I'll call you back in three hours. For now, make Harry sleep. I don't care how you do it – knock him over the head with a baseball bat if you have to – just get him unconscious. It'll slow the effects of the leech on his system, buy us as much as an extra day or two."

Dean nodded even though he knew that she couldn't see him, "Will do." Snapping the phone shut, Dean went back into the motel room. Sam was splitting his time between reading the book Harry had told him to look through and watching the wizard out the corner of his eye. Dean walked up behind Harry. Harry was online, though it was a web page extension Dean hadn't been aware existed, a dot-magi, rather than a dot-com or dot-org. The screen displayed a complicated schematic of various colored lines. It took a moment for Dean to recognize it was an anatomical map of the nerves along the spine. Harry clicked a link on the right of the page, and more lines showed up. The title changed to say, 'Magical flow in comparison with neurological pathways'.

"So?" Harry asked, scrolling down the page and clicking another link.

"I called Leanne. She said she'll contact the guy."

"Oh."

"She also said that this leech thing doesn't work as fast if you're asleep."

"Like I could fucking sleep right now. I don't sleep much when I'm _not_ under a," Harry snorted in macabre humor, "_deadline_."

The corners of Dean's mouth pulled back, though it was far from a smile. "I realized. So… Sorry, Harry."

Harry had just enough time to say, "Wha–" before Dean's fist connected with the back of his head. Harry slumped in the chair.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Sam asked, moving the books off the bed.

"Leanne told me to, so I'd say… Yeah, it was." Dean scooped Harry out of the chair and laid him on the bed. He pulled off Harry's boots and sat them on the floor.

"You still clean?"

Dean shrugged and stripped his t-shirt off again. "Dunno, am I?"

"Yeah. If this thing is communicable by touch, then how come you don't seem to be catching it?"

Dean pulled his shirt back on. "Maybe I'm just naturally immune."

"Maybe." Sam didn't sound convinced.

"Well, what else could it be? Maybe Harry's wrong about what it is, but he seems to know his job as good as or better than we know ours, and he's convinced that's what it is."

"Whatever," Sam sat the stack of books on top of the trunk. "I'm going to go get some dinner. Want anything?"

"I could eat," Dean shrugged. "You know what I like."

"Keys?"

Dean tossed Sam the keys to the Impala. When Sam had left, Dean pulled one of the table's two chairs over to the side of the bed and divided his attention between making sure Harry didn't wake up and reading through the website on Harry's computer.

* * *

_12:00 am, October 11, 2007  
Headmistress' Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Scotland, United Kingdom_

Minerva McGonagall had just put the finishing touches on the last of the paperwork she had to fill out for the day and was ready to call it a night when the floo chimed. Sighing a little, she got up and answered it. A woman she didn't recognize immediately was on the other end. "I'm Headmistress McGonagall. May I help you, madam?"

The woman, who was past her youth but not yet elderly, brushed a loose lock of grey-brown hair behind her ear and smiled. Minerva was sure she'd seen the woman somewhere before, but couldn't place her. _She's not young enough to have been a student, and she's too young to be a classmate…_ "I hope so." The woman's accent was enough to trigger Minerva's memory. "First, I'll apologize for the late hour, but this is something of an emergency."

"And how can Hogwarts be of assistance, Secretary MacRucky?"

"I need to get in touch with Severus Snape. The latest information I have puts him at your school as the Potions Master in residence."

Minerva frowned, "I do apologize, Madam Secretary, however your information appears to be outdated. The former Professor Snape chose not to renew his contract for the current school year."

Secretary MacRucky's expression fell. "Damn it," she muttered. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"I'm sorry, Madam Secretary, but I can't give out that information. Have you contacted the Ministry?"

The American equivalent to the Minister of Magic shook her head, her expression somewhere between angry and worried. "No, and I didn't plan to, Headmistress McGonagall. This _is_ a matter of some pressing urgency. May I come through?"

True to her animagus form, Minerva was curious, and everyone knew what happed to the curious cat, so she nodded and stepped aside. Secretary MacRucky arrived through the floo wearing a pair of fluffy plush slippers in the shape of cow heads, a pair of purple-and-white flannel pajamas, and a thick blue terrycloth bathrobe. "I apologize for my attire, headmistress, but, like I said, this is an emergency."

"So I heard, Madam Secretary."

The woman shook her head, "Please, call me Leanne. I'm not really here, if you catch my meaning."

"Understood, Leanne. Welcome to Hogwarts, feel free to address me as Minerva. Have a seat and tell me just what has you flooing halfway around the world in the middle of the night."

Leanne sat in one of the rather comfortable chairs facing Minerva's desk. Eyeing the numerous portraits in the room, she asked, "How secure is it to speak freely?"

Minerva smiled and took her own seat, "As safe as houses, Leanne. Though the Heads of Hogwarts' past are fond of their gossip, they know better than to talk to anyone but themselves about the goings-on in this office. What is this about?"

"A very dear friend of mine has stumbled into a situation which your former Potions Master is uniquely suited to deal with – namely, a power-leech. I don't yet have the full details on the how or why it showed up in the US, but I know that Snape is the only wizard to date who can safely remove one from its victim."

A couple of points in Leanne's explanation captured Minerva's attention. First, that she referred to Severus as 'Snape' without any sort of title or honorific. _The only people who do that are his former students._ Secondly, the fond look that surfaced on the Secretary's face when she admitted that the person in trouble was a 'dear friend' was something that Minerva had seen numerous times before. _That peculiar combination of love and exasperation and mind-numbingly fearful worry has only ever really been attached to one person I can think of…_ "Merlin, you've found him, haven't you?"

Leanne leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "Found who?"

Minerva echoed Leanne's earlier fond expression. "Why, Harry, of course." Suspicious, Leanne remained silent. Really, it was all the admission that Minerva needed. "A power-leech. Hmm… Have to say, Harry never does things by halves, does he?"

Leanne was forced to chuckle a little at that. _Obviously, this one isn't one of his enemies._ "You were his Head of House, weren't you?"

Minerva nodded, "I was. A more vexing student I never had, always into trouble, but never malicious. Probably the only person for whom I would say is totally, completely, and purely good – honestly incapable of evil."

"He is something of a trouble-magnet, isn't he?" Leanne and Minerva both chuckled at that. "And I didn't find him – _he_ found _me_. March fifteenth of '97. I was on my way from my apartment in Manhattan to a meeting in Langley. The limo broke down – it was a meeting with several high-ranking members of a muggle organization – and suddenly, there was Harry. Short, scrawny, underfed, with these big black circles around his eyes, riding a motorcycle. My guards didn't consider him much of a threat at the time – he wasn't very recognizable as Harry Potter – and he assumed we were muggles in need of help. He fiddled with the engine of the limo for about ten minutes and got us back on the road. I gave him my cell number and told him I owed him a favor. He called the following week. I think he just needed someone to talk to. Eventually, we became friends."

"Harry has far more friends than he knew when he left – when you see him again, you might want to remind him of that. We've all been worried about him."

"I know, but he simply won't listen to me if I start telling him to contact anyone he used to know."

Minerva rummaged around in a drawer of her desk for a moment and came up with a file folder. She sat the folder on the desk. "Do you want a cup of tea, Leanne? It would only take a moment or two to make."

"You don't conjure your tea?"

Minerva shook her head and smiled a catlike grin. "No, I've always preferred tea done properly. I'll just be a moment, if you don't mind?"

Leanne smiled in understanding, "Not at all, Minerva."

Minerva disappeared through a nearly-hidden doorway – Leanne assumed it lead to her private quarters. She snatched the file folder off of the desk. It was as she thought. _Snape, S. T. Potions Master_ was written across the front of the folder. Leanne opened it and quickly scanned the parchment pages. _Here it is!_ She memorized the address and sat the folder back on the desk just as Minerva reappeared with a tea tray.

Minerva handed one cup to Leanne and took the second for herself. "Once you find Severus, you may have your hands full trying to convince him to help you."

Leanne sipped her tea and grimaced a little, "If Harry's stories about the man are accurate, I don't doubt that."

"Severus will do what's right, though. Even if he tells you no – and I'm sure the man will try his best to convince you that your trip was wasted – he _will_ do what's right."

Leanne sat the teacup down on the desk and stood, "I certainly hope so, Minerva. Thanks for the tea, but I really do need to be going."

Minerva nodded, "Remember to tell Harry what I said."

"I will."

* * *

_6:30 pm, October 10, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

By the time Sam returned with a bag of sandwiches and cookies from Subway, Dean had learned quite a bit about how magic worked. For instance, he found that the reason behind why salt worked as a deterrent to supernatural entities was because its crystalline nature captured and clarified ambient magical energy into a pure state – which would deter good spirits and magical beings just as easily as it would evil. He wasn't too sure he agreed with the site's claim that the reason humankind could use salt was because humanity was inherently neither good nor evil, but he didn't really have a better explanation.

"How's Harry doing?"

"Still out. He's gonna want to kill me when he wakes up, isn't he?" Dean caught the bag of food that Sam threw his direction.

"Probably. I know I would if I were him. Any word yet from Leanne?"

Dean shook his head. "Not yet. She said she'd call back around a quarter to nine or so."

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Harry. "You think she'll really be able to help him?"

Dean shook his head again. "I have no idea, Sammy, really, I don't. I hope so – I kinda like the guy."

"Me, too."

* * *

_1:12 am, October 11, 2007  
7 Spinner's End  
Radcliffe, Lancashire  
England, United Kingdom_

Leanne saw what Harry had meant when he'd told her his former professor was a bastard. She was beginning to think so, too. "I'm going to ask one last time, Snape, and then it's going to get ugly. Will you help him or not?"

"You come banging on my doorstep in the wee small hours of the morning, expecting civility and a sympathetic ear to your pitiful plight and then demand I remove myself to an undisclosed location to cater to Potter's suicidal stupidity yet again –"

"Thanks for the recap, Captain Obvious, but just answer the fucking question."

"_And_," Snape continued, ignoring her interruption, "you have the audacity to automatically assume I have nothing better to do with my time but cosset that bloody brat –"

Leanne stopped listening to the man talk. Sure, she may not appear to be the sanest person on the planet – she _was_ still in her pajamas – but her temper had been pressed just about as far as it could go. She was running on a mere two hours' sleep for the last forty-eight and the small amount of caffeine in the tea she'd shared with Minerva hadn't done much to wake her. She clenched her right hand and brought it out in a punch. It didn't hit Snape, who was standing on the other side of the room, but that hadn't been her intention. Snape flew backwards and hit a bookshelf, suspended a good foot in the air, pinned to the shelving. Unlike Harry, Leanne was a true wandless master. She might not have had the sheer power available to her that he did, but she knew precisely how to use it. "Now, shut up, Snape. I don't give a good God damn _what_ your problem with Harry is – you _are_ going to help that boy, or so help me your place in the history books won't be as one of England's premier Potions Masters, but as the man who single-handedly managed to start World War Three."

Snape, for his part, had heard rumors about the American Secretary of Magic's legendary temper. He had dismissed them, thinking the rumors to be nothing more than exaggeration – after all, how could someone lead a country if the rumors were true? However, the evidence before him made him realize that A.) the rumors weren't quite as exaggerated as he had thought and B.) yes, there _was_ someone on the planet who could inspire fear levels heretofore undreamed of, even by Voldemort. _If this is a common reaction among the Yanks when one of their… 'friends' is threatened, is it any wonder that no one is barmy enough to attack the country on their own ground?_

Leanne stormed across the book-cluttered sitting room. "Last chance, Snape. Will. You. Help. Or. Not. Yes or no answer, if you would. I'm getting sick of you displaying your love for the sound of your own voice."

* * *

**A/N2:** According to the HP Lexicon, Snape's house is merely 'somewhere in a factory town in northern England'. I did some digging and found that Radcliffe fit both those criteria quite nicely, being a former mill town and center for the production of cotton thread. It doubles as an unintentional homage to Dan Radcliffe (who plays Harry in the movies). I love serendipity, don't you? 

Reviews are my bread and butter (or in my case, my frozen pizza and cigarettes).


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** According to Super-Wiki, Bobby Singer lives in either Sioux County, South Dakota (as per the official Supernatural site) or Lawrence County, SD (per the plates on his tow-truck). There is no Sioux County in South Dakota, but there is one in North Dakota. For the purposes of this story, I've placed Bobby's home roughly in the middle of South Dakota, a few miles outside of Pierre.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_7:30 pm, October 10, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Dean was still poking around on Harry's laptop when his cell rang. The phone was sitting on the bed next to Harry. Sam had moved to sitting on the floor, using the side of the bed as a back-rest. "Would you get that, Sam? I'm in the middle of something."

Sam reached behind him and grabbed the phone. Glancing at the caller ID, he flipped it open, "Hey, Bobby. What's up?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah. Dean's… busy." In all honesty, Sam was a little weirded out by the fact that his brother had been focusing almost entirely on the contents of Harry's computer – and that it wasn't porn. Sam couldn't remember the last time he saw Dean so interested in something that didn't have the possibility of blowing up.

Sam could hear Bobby open his fridge on the other end of the line. "You boys still down in Arkansas?"

"No, we're in southern Louisiana at the moment – why?"

"Damn, you boys must be a step ahead of me for a change. You're in Leeville?"

"No, Houma at the moment, but we were looking into a haunting in Leeville and you'll never guess who we ran into."

The distinctive hiss of a beer bottle being opened sounded clearly though the call. "I ain't one for guessing games, Sam."

"Harry – that Hunter we told you about, the one that helped out with the naga back in July."

Bobby chuckled, "Damn. You young'uns are making me feel a tad obsolete."

Sam smiled into the phone, "Oh, come on, Bobby – you've probably forgot more about Hunting than me or Dean will ever know."

"And don't you forget it."

"How'd you hear about the haunting in Leeville, though? I thought you were pretty much occupied with the demons that got loose from the hell-gate back in June."

"Because I'm pretty sure it ain't a haunting down there. I got me a demon in Lincoln who said that big plans were starting up – damn thing wouldn't say what, of course – but it did mention Leeville, Louisiana by name."

Sam let out a low whistle, "Damn… This thing just keeps getting more and more complicated."

"You boys need any help?"

"Probably. When can you get here?"

"Lemme think… That's got to be right around fifteen hundred miles. Could drive it in nineteen or twenty hours. How urgent is this?"

"Worryingly so."

"That ain't good."

"I'll get you a flight out of Pierre," Sam paused as a thought hit him. "Can I call you back in a few? I think I know someone who could fly you down here…"

"Sure thing. I'll start gathering up my shit."

Sam ended the call and started searching through Dean's list of contacts. "Do you still have Jerry's number?"

Dean looked up from the computer, "Yeah, I think so. I should anyway, check under 'Panowski'. You gonna see if he can get a charter for Bobby?"

"That's what I was hoping for." Locating the number, Sam hit send.

The phone rang three times before it was answered, "Panowski here, if this is Frank – I told you, you gotta talk to the FAA."

"Hey Jerry, this is Sam Winchester."

"Oh, hi. Um… This is a change. Usually, I'm the one calling you guys."

Sam chuckled, "Yeah, I know. Listen, I need to know if you know someone who could fly a friend of mine from Pierre, South Dakota to New Orleans."

"I know a bunch of people who could do that, but aren't there commercial flights you could have used?"

"There are, but we need someone who won't be too picky about what our friend brings with him."

"Is this one of those situations where I really don't want to know what's going on?"

"Not at all – it's just that Bobby's something of a demonology expert and I honestly have no idea what he'll want to bring with him."

"This like that thing that was crashing planes?"

"We don't know for sure yet, Jerry. Whatever it is, it's getting more and more complicated the further into it we look."

"Hmm… I might know someone, but he won't fly for nothing."

"Don't worry about the money."

"In that case, you'll want to call George Raybin. His number is 515-555-3285. He's based in Des Moines – runs a Learjet 23, one of only 39 still in operation."

"Thanks, Jerry."

"No problem. Anytime."

Sam ended the call and dialed Raybin's number. "Thank you for calling Raybin's Charter Service, how may I direct your call?" a perky voice answered after a single ring.

Sam could just imagine the woman on the other end of the line as one of those ditzy bottle-blondes whose main talent was reading fashion magazines. "Um, yeah. Is there any way I could talk to George Raybin?"

"Who may I ask is calling?"

"Sam Winchester – Jerry Panowski referred me."

"Just a moment." Tinny hold music came on the line.

After several minutes of waiting, a gruff voice finally cut through the hold music, "George here."

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I was hoping you'd be free today."

"Panowski told you to call me?"

"Yeah, he did."

"Fifteen thou'll get ya anywhere in North America, no questions asked. You wanna go somewhere else, we'll negotiate on the money."

"Pierre, South Dakota to New Orleans. One passenger and whatever he brings with him."

"One passenger, huh? Same price, buddy."

"I wasn't negotiating. You take Visa?"

"Sure do. Pay the secretary. What's the passenger's name?"

"Bobby Singer. About six-one, grey-brown hair, favors jeans, boots, and always wears a beat up blue and white ball cap. What time should I tell him to meet you at the Pierre airport?"

"I can be there in an hour and a half. Just as soon as your cash clears, in other words."

"Then let's not waste any more time. Shoot me back over to your secretary, Mr. Raybin."

Sam was unable to get the mental image of a ditzy secretary out of his mind while talking to her. It was getting less surreal to handle a debit card with his own name on it, even if the thought of the amount of money Harry had given the Winchesters was still daunting. Once the fees were taken care of, he called Bobby back. "Sam?"

"Yeah. Got you a charter out of Pierre. Pilot said he'd be there by nine. Raybin's Charter Service."

"Got it. Any rules on what I can bring with me?"

"Nope – said he didn't want to know."

"Good enough. I'll see you later."

* * *

_2:10 am, October 11, 2007  
12 Grimmauld Place  
London, England_

Remus Lupin sat his book down on the side table next to the sofa and got to his feet. _Who on Earth would be calling this late at night?_ he wondered, retying his dressing gown as he ventured into the hallway and towards the front door. There was a repeat of impatient pounding. "Open the bloody door, Lupin. I know you're awake."

Remus rolled his eyes. _Snape. Of course. Only he would show in the dead of night. Man has no common decency._ "I'm coming, I'm coming."

"So's Christmas. Hurry up."

Remus opened the door and stopped short, his mouth clicking closed as he caught sight of a woman wearing her pajamas with a death-grip on Snape's sleeve. His eyes darted from the woman to Snape and back. "Don't say a bloody word, Lupin."

Remus simply stepped aside and let the unlikely duo into the house. Remus coughed a little to clear his throat. "Um… shall I make tea, Severus?"

"I don't think that's necessary," the woman spoke. "Well?" she addressed Snape with a pointed glare.

_Is it my imagination, or does she have Snape cowed?_ Remus had to smile a little, _I wish Sirius were here to see this._ Remus kept his thoughts to himself – he had no desire to face Snape's wrath. "What's going on, Severus?"

"Remus Lupin, Leanne MacRucky. Long story short – Secretary MacRucky here knows where Potter is. Potter has, apparently, had a run-in with a power-leech."

Remus reassessed the angry looking woman in her pajamas. "You know where Harry is?"

"Not exactly, but I know how to find him."

Remus took three bounding steps, caught Leanne up in a crushing hug, spun her around twice, shouting, "Merlin," all the while. Once he sat her down on her feet again, he disappeared up the stairs so fast Leanne was almost positive a smoke-outline of the man lingered at the foot of the steps for a moment. "I'll be ready in half a mo!" echoed down the stairs.

Leanne was at a loss for what to do for a moment. "So… Um… Is he always so –"

"Yes," was Snape's flat reply.

"And just why did you need him again?"

"There is no way in hell I am going to be in the same room as Potter without a distraction. Lupin will serve admirably in that regard."

"Huh. I'd've thought, from Harry's stories about you, that Remus would be the last person on Earth you'd want to take with you."

Severus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "My personal history with Lupin aside, he is best suited to distract Potter while I address his latest bout of moronic Gryffindorishness."

"Is that even a word?"

"Yes."

Remus reappeared, dressed in worn corduroys, a red sweater that had quite obviously been a gift from Molly Weasley, and plain brown leather loafers. He had his traveling satchel in hand and his cloak over his shoulder. "Okay, I'm ready to go."

"Just like that?" Leanne asked. "You don't need to contact anyone?"

Remus shook his head, "No. Shall we?"

"Floo?"

"In the lounge."

* * *

_8:22 pm, October 10, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Sam answered Dean's phone as it lit up – it didn't even get the chance to ring. "Yeah?"

"Dean?"

"No, it's Sam."

"Oh. Sorry, you boys sound alike on the phone. I found that expert Harry recommended. Where are you staying?"

"We're at the Super 8 in Houma. When can we expect you?"

"In about ten minutes. I'll arrange for a portkey – and yes, I'll explain that when I get there. What room?"

"217."

"See you boys soon."

"Yeah."

Dean finished reading the article he was on and looked up. He was surprised to see how much time had gone by. "Who was that?"

"Leanne. She said she'd be here in about ten minutes."

Dean blinked, then shook his head, "I thought she lived in New York? Never mind, I don't think I want to know. How's Harry doing?"

"Still out cold."

Dean sat Harry's computer back on the table and took a look at their friend. He was still unhealthily pale, except for two bright red splotches along his cheekbones. "I don't think this is because I hit him, Sammy. He looks really sick." Dean reached out and laid a hand on Harry's forehead. "Yeah… Can't tell how high, but he's definitely got a fever going on."

Sam knocked Dean's hand off Harry. "Don't touch him – you heard him tell us that's how this thing spreads."

"Don't sweat it – I still don't have whatever it is that he's got."

"We don't know why, though, so let's just stay on the safe side, okay?"

Dean glanced over at his brother and saw Sam's familiar expression of worry. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "Okay. How about you take the car and go check us out of that B&B?"

Sam handed Dean his phone and got to his feet. "Sure."

Five minutes after Sam had left to retrieve their things from the B&B in Cut Off, a knock sounded on the door. Ever cautious, Dean pulled his Taurus 9-mil – loaded with ordinary silver bullets – from his pocket before peeking through the corner of the window. Leanne was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain blue t-shirt under a brown suede jacket and standing in front of a tall man dressed all in black and another man in a red sweater. Dean let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and opened the door. "Leanne, it's about damn time."

"I came as fast as I could, honey. Where's Harry?"

"On the bed – I did like you said and made sure he got some sleep."

The man in the red sweater chuckled and followed Leanne through the dark room. "What did you hit him with?"

"My fist," Dean stated. "Who are you? You the guy Harry told us to find?"

The man shook his head. The man in black stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "That would be me."

Dean flicked a switch and the room's lamps flared to life. "So you're Snape."

"And you are?"

"Dean Winchester."

The two men eyed each other for a long minute. Dean neither flinched nor blinked. Snape glanced over to where Harry lay on the bed. "When did the leech manifest?"

Dean checked the time on his cell, replacing his gun in his waistband at the small of his back as he did so. "Roughly… four and a half hours ago. Maybe four hours and forty-five minutes. Hard to say exactly, I wasn't worried about the time when it happened."

"What were you doing?" the man in the red sweater asked, never taking his eyes off of Harry.

"Our fucking jobs – what's it to you?" Dean wasn't sure why, but he didn't like the man in the sweater.

Leanne sat on the edge of the bed, "Dean, don't be rude. They're here to help."

"Whatever, Leanne."

"No, it's okay," the man in the sweater sighed. "I don't mind."

"It doesn't make it right," Leanne glared at Dean.

Severus rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "Merlin," he muttered. "Children! Stow it. You," he pointed at Dean, "tell me exactly what you were doing when Potter got hit with the leech. You two," he pointed at Remus and Leanne, "keep your inane comments to yourselves."

"My brother and I were looking into a vengeful spirit down in Leeville when we ran into Harry checking out the same haunting. Found out that it wasn't your run-of-the-mill ghost and we decided to knock off for the night. Went back to take a look at the house in the daylight and we found… Well, the floor was marked up with something that sort-of looked like a devil's trap and the walls all had writing on them. The north wall had Norse runes, south had Egyptian hieroglyphs, east was likely Japanese, and the west wall was Latin. Harry translated the Latin. When he finished, he got hit in the back of the head with a beam of reddish light. It knocked him out, so I carried him out to the car, and we high-tailed it out of there. He came to about fifteen minutes later, threw up a couple of times, and then freaked out. Found the spot on his back, came back here, and called Leanne." Dean finished his monologue and mentally noted, _It's like reporting to Dad._

There were several points in Winchester's story which begged attention; Severus almost was at a loss as to where to begin. Almost. "You_ carried_ him? Physically?"

Though Dean was tempted to give the man a sarcastic reply, he simply nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Strip your shirt."

"We've already checked, sir. It didn't spread to me. We don't know why."

Severus narrowed his eyes and filed the information away in his brain for later exploration. "Describe the marks on the floor in more detail."

"A septagram ringed by nine concentric circles. Between the lines of the circles was writing I didn't recognize, but each circle appeared to have the same words repeated over and over. I didn't count how many repetitions there were." Dean paused, mentally picturing the design. "I recall seeing the astrological symbols for Pluto, Mars, Mercury, the moon, Aquarius, and Libra drawn in the points of the star. The seventh point held the symbol for the Eye of Ra and there was a symbol I didn't recognize in the center of the septagram."

"What was the translation of the spell on the wall?"

"I don't remember, sir. My brother wrote it down, but he's gone to get our things from where we were staying. I can call him if you need it."

"When will he be returning?"

Dean shrugged, "Not sure, sir. He left just before you got here. He'll probably be back in an hour or so."

"No, don't bother. I'll wait. Going back to your earlier admission, why did you not think to use a mobilicorpus spell?"

Dean let out a huff that was half exasperation, half amusement. "I think you've got the wrong idea about me, sir. I ain't no wizard."

"In that case, just what did you think you were going to do to the malevolent spirit? Shoot it?"

Dean laughed a little, "Well… _yeah_. Rock salt works wonders if you just need to buy a little time. We were verifying that it was a ghost we were dealing with the first time we went to the house. Sam and I were going to salt and burn her remains after we were done there, but we got side-tracked by Harry. He said he'd tried using a banishing spell on it and the spell didn't work, so I assumed our normal method of dealing with spirits wasn't going to work either."

"Salt." Snape's tone was somewhat incredulous.

"It always worked in the past, sir."

"And just how did you come to that information?"

Dean smiled, "It's the… family business, I guess you could say. My dad learned all he could about things like that and raised me and my brother to know it, too. I've been Hunting all my life, sir, and by now I think I know more-or-less what I'm doing."

"Hunting?"

"Yes, sir. We get a line on something evil, and me and Sam take it down. It's not just us, either. There are others like us who do what we do."

"And you're _all_ muggles?"

"Pretty sure, sir. Harry here is the only Hunter I've heard of who can do that wand-magic-stuff."

Severus honestly had no idea how to reply to that, so he didn't. Instead, he turned his attention to the still-unconscious Potter, ignoring the ringing of Winchester's mobile phone.

Dean answered his phone and spoke briefly with Bobby. When the call finished, he sent a text message to Sam.

* * *

_9:00 pm, October 10, 2007  
Château Rochelle B&B parking lot  
Cut Off, Louisiana_

Sam didn't have any difficulty retrieving their things from the B&B. Once the duffels were safely stowed in the trunk, however, he sat staring at the Impala's steering wheel. On one hand, he wanted to go back to Houma and see how Harry was doing. On the other, he also wanted to return to the house in Leeville and get another look at the writing in the upstairs room. Maybe take a few pictures with his phone. Almost as though the thought of his phone had caused it, his cell beeped to indicate a text had been received.

_BS will b lnding n 3 hrs. Calvary here. Dude wants trans of Lat – still have?_

Sam sighed at his brother's text-shorthand before replying, _Yes, I still have the translation. If it's urgent, I can text it to you. Ever hear of complete sentences?_

After a couple of minutes, Dean's reply beeped through. _No :-D Lat cn wait. Hurry bk. Want my knife. LMac brot 2nd dude – something off._

Sam cast one last look across the parking lot in the direction of Leeville before pulling the Impala onto Old Highway One and heading north. _As much as having some photos of that writing would help the research aspect of this job, it can wait until either Bobby or Dean can go with me. I don't think I want to go back in that house alone until we figure out what the heck we're dealing with. Particularly not at night. And not when Dean's stranded with people we know next to nothing about._ As Sam navigated the narrow, two-lane blacktop, he sent a return message to Dean. _What's off?_

Sam was just passing the city limits sign for Larose when his phone beeped again. Splitting his attention between the cell and the road, he read Dean's rather lengthy text.

_Dude no2 just off. Makes skn all crawly. Seems like prty nice guy but dunno. Drv fst but u hurt my car n I kill u._

Sam laughed and returned his cell to his jacket pocket.

* * *

_9:14 pm, October 10, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Leanne left shortly after Dean had texted Sam the first time, telling Dean to 'Give Sam my hello' and saying that she'd be back the next day. For all that Dean understood that she was completely tired, he couldn't help but feel a little resentful of her up and leaving him with two relative unknowns. Regardless of the fact that Snape's attitude reminded him of his Dad when the two of them were Hunting together, the other man – _Didn't Snape call him Lupin?_ – made Dean wholly uncomfortable. He wished Sam was there. He wished Harry was awake. Dean mentally kicked himself to stop the useless line of thought. _Sammy'll be here soon. Bobby'll be here in about four hours. Just… deal, Dean._

"How is he, Severus?" The man in the sweater had taken up residence in one of the room's two chairs. Dean was watching from the corner furthest from him.

Snape, who had been using his wand to analyze the leech on Harry's back, tucked it back into his sleeve. "As you would expect, Lupin. His power levels are being drained at an alarming rate." Turning to face Dean, Snape asked, "You, do you know if he's been sleeping? Eating?"

Dean shrugged, "None of my business, sir. Why's it matter?"

"Potter has a tendency to self-destruction – he refuses to sleep as a normal person, as well as not eating, as some sort of delusional penance to appease his guilt-complex. How rapidly the leech will drain his magic is directly proportional to how strong his reserves are, which in turn depends on how healthy he is. So, I shall ask a final time; has he been sleeping and eating as one could expect of a reasonably sane person?"

Dean snorted in amusement. "As far as I know, and he's said as much to me, he prefers to sleep as little as possible. Food? Well, he seems to live off energy drinks and cigarettes."

"When was the last time he ate something, or don't you know?"

Dean thought hard. "Hmm… I'm not sure, sir, but I know he had at least one energy drink this morning, and he drank most of a fifth of bourbon last night. I don't recall if he had donuts with me and Sam at breakfast or not."

Snape muttered something under his breath that Dean couldn't quite catch before heading to the box sitting on the dresser between the television and Harry's saddlebag. The very same box Dean recalled seeing the very first time he met Harry. Snape opened the box and started rummaging through the jars and vials. Every now and again, Dean heard him mutter something about a 'lamentable lack of organizational skill'.

The man had set aside seven or eight jars and vials when there was a knock on the door. Both Snape and Lupin were on their feet, wands in hand, before the knock finished. Dean knew it was just Sam, though. "Hey, Dean! Lemme in, my hands are full."

Dean shook his head at the two men and strode across the carpet to the door. He unlocked it and let his brother in, taking his duffle as he did so. "Hey Sam. Any trouble?"

Sam shook his head. "None. Got us the double that adjoins this one," he nodded towards the door in the wall between the open closet area leading to the bathroom and the dresser.

"Good move. Sam, this is Snape and Lupin. Guys, this is my brother, Sam."

"Pleased to meet you," Sam smiled.

Lupin returned the smile, "Likewise." Snape didn't say anything.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room. Dean broke it, "So… um… yeah. This is awkward." Sam and Lupin chuckled, and Snape went back to rummaging around in Harry's box. "Well, um… You seem to have things in hand here, so… Come on, Sam. Let's get our shit to our room."

"Yeah, Dean." Sam followed Dean outside and to room 216. Once they were inside, Sam sat his duffle on the bed next to the bathroom wall and asked, "So what's up?"

"Snape seems to know what he's doing, so no worries there. That other guy, though… Something ain't right."

"Demon, do you think?"

Dean sat his own duffle on the bed by the window. "I don't think so, but I don't know for sure." He glanced towards the door to Harry's room, which was situated directly opposite the foot of Sam's bed. "I have no idea how long we're going to be here. What did you tell the clerk?"

Sam shrugged, handing Dean one of the key cards for their room. "Just enough truth – we're visiting a sick friend and don't know how long we'll be staying."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "I'm going to go down to the car and bring up the rest of our gear. It's been a while since we cleaned everything. It'll give us something to do while we wait for Bobby to get here."

"I'll go give Snape the copy of the spell from the house."

"Leave the door open. When I get back, I'll salt both rooms." Dean was halfway out the door when he paused, "I just had a thought…"

"Did it hurt?"

"Ha-ha. No, listen. Will a devil's lock work if painted in holy water?"

Sam cocked his head to the side and considered it for a moment. "I don't see why not. Thinking of putting a couple on the doors?"

"Better safe than sorry," Dean grinned.

"I'm sure Bobby would approve."

After the door closed behind Dean, Sam unlocked the adjoining door and knocked. A moment later, Lupin unlocked his side and opened it. "Hello again. Sam, right?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah. Lupin?"

"Remus, please."

"Okay, Remus then. I have a translation of that Latin we found in the house down in Leeville. I assume Dean told you about what we found?"

Remus nodded, "He told Severus what you found. I may have been in the room, but he wasn't talking to me at the time. I still heard it, though." Remus had a kind smile with laugh lines that ran at angles to the four parallel scars that cut diagonally across his face. "I don't believe your brother likes me very much."

Sam shrugged. Digging out his memo book, he said, "Dean doesn't trust easily. It's not his fault – in our line of work, immediately trusting someone you just met is a quick way to get killed."

"Lupin's just jealous that his insufferable nature was immediately spotted," Snape snarked from his place by the dresser. He was still examining jars and bottles.

"I'm not jealous, Severus – merely surprised."

Severus snorted, "I don't know what's so surprising. I seem to recall that I could manage to teach a class without befriending the students; it's called respect and you might ought to try it sometime."

"Ha! 'Respect'? The students were terrified of you."

"As they should be," Snape nodded at the bottle he held and sat it on the dresser.

"Ignore him," Remus whispered to Sam. "He's always like this."

Sam was having difficulty figuring out if the two men were friends, lovers, or merely acquaintances. So, he asked. "So what's the story with you two?"

"We went to school together as children and have worked together in the past. I've been assisting Severus with a pet project of his for a number of years now, but we aren't what you'd consider friends."

"Ah," Sam nodded in understanding. "Is that why you came along? To assist Mr. Snape?"

Remus shook his head, "No. I came because of Harry."

"I don't follow."

"I was friends with his parents and later, I was his teacher. He's something akin to a nephew to me. It hurt when he had to leave, but I couldn't blame him for it. There was no way he would have survived had he stayed in the UK." Remus' smile faded somewhat. "As it stands, I don't see how he'll ever be able to come home."

"As mind-numbingly riveting as you think as your conversation is, Lupin, could you tone down the maudlin sentiment and let the boy find that translation before that leech drains Potter completely?" Snape had apparently finished looking through the box and now stood staring at Lupin and Sam.

Sam flipped his memo book open to the last page. "Here," he tore the page out of the spiral-bound book and handed it to Snape.

Snape read it quickly before handing it to Lupin. "It's a modified binding spell."

Lupin nodded, "Cord magic, normally. Not something used all that often in modern times. Fell out of favor around 1400 or so."

"Hey, Sam!" Dean called out from the other room.

"Yeah?" Sam poked his head through the door.

"Give me a hand with this."

Sam hurried over to his brother and took the bag of their weapons from him. "I don't know what your problem is with Remus," he whispered. "He seems like a nice guy."

Dean shrugged and sat the unopened five-gallon can of rock salt down before digging his pocket knife out. "It's probably nothing." Opening his knife with one hand, he unscrewed the cap of the salt can with his other and then cut away the seal. "The holy water's in the bag, too. Why don't you do the locks and I'll salt?"

"Sure," Sam replied and dug out one of the plastic water bottles. "Inside, outside, or both?"

"Just do the inside for now. We'll wait for Bobby before we get too gung-ho on it. He might know of something better."

"Good point." Sam headed into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. He dampened it with the holy water and used the wet cloth to draw a devil's lock on the inside of both the door and the window while Dean laid a two-inch thick white line of salt around the perimeter of the room. He ignored the open door and followed the wall around into Harry's room.

Snape and Lupin were both leaning over the table by the window, rereading the spell. Neither one really noticed what Dean was doing until he squeezed between them to reach the wall under the window. "Pardon me, but what on Earth are you doing?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow and looked up at Lupin. "I'm setting a perimeter. I thought I mentioned that salt is our friend?" Lupin blinked at him. Dean shook his head and went about his business. "Dude, look, I don't really feel like explaining it right now, but this just might save our hides, so whatever you do, don't fuck with the salt."

He was most of the way around the room – having moved Harry's bed, with Harry still on it, from the wall by sheer old-fashioned effort – when Sam stepped in and repeated his earlier act of drawing a devil's lock on the inside of both the door and the window. "I didn't notice, but do the bathrooms have windows, Sammy?"

"_Sam_. And no, they don't. There's another row of rooms on the other side of the building." Sam put the finishing touches on the window lock. "What do you think, outer walls, too?"

Dean shook his head. "Naw… This ought to do, for a little while anyway. What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch," was Sam's immediate reply, even as Remus replied, "Well, the bedside clock says it's a quarter past ten."

"Bobby said he'd grab a rental in New Orleans, so we won't have to go get him. He should be here no later than one."

"Will he call when he lands?"

Dean shrugged, "Probably. Didn't say." He finished laying the salt line in Harry's room and worked back around the door to his and Sam's room.

Harry began moving in his sleep and Snape hurried over to the bedside, pulling his wand as he did so. Sam watched in fascination for several minutes before Remus tapped him on the arm. "Severus knows what he's doing, let's leave him to it."

Sam dragged his eyes away from the man who looked like a child's rendition of a vampire and sat in the second chair, across the table from Remus. "Sorry. It's just that, knowing Harry aside, I find this whole magic-thing a little hard to understand."

"It can be a little overwhelming," Remus admitted. "I was wondering if you could explain what it is that you and your brother do? He said that you 'get a line on something evil' and 'take it down'. What's that mean?"

Sam chuckled, "Pretty much just that. We're Hunters, it's what we do. We've Hunted a bunch of different things – ghosts, demons, assorted creatures. Hell, once we even had to deal with a whole family of psycho _people_ who'd taken a liking to hunting humans."

"How do you find these things? Is it just – I hesitate to use the term, but I can't think of anything else that fits – good luck?"

"No. Sometimes, a Hunt will find us, but that doesn't happen very often. Most of the time it's pure research. We read newspapers and online articles, looking for odd deaths for the most part. If something's off, we'll go check it out. Sometimes, it's nothing, just some freak coincidences. Most of the time, though, it's something we can deal with. Other jobs are shot our way by other Hunters who are too busy or too far away to look into things."

"How many, um… 'Hunters' are there?"

Sam shrugged, "I don't know for sure. Dean and I know about ten others, and know _of_ a further fifteen or so, but it's not like we have meetings or anything."

"Your brother said you two had been 'Hunting' all your lives?"

Nodding, Sam replied, "Yeah. It all started because a demon killed our mom when I was a baby. Dean was four. Our dad… Well, he got a little obsessed with finding and killing the thing that did it."

"Did he ever find it?"

Sam nodded, "He did, but he didn't get a chance to kill it – he died in November of last year. Dean managed to kill the demon though, back in June."

"Do you like what you do?"

Sam's expression turned a little bittersweet, "I didn't used to. I wanted to be a lawyer, had a full-ride to Stanford. I wanted to have a normal life – wife, picket fence, that whole deal – but it didn't work out that way. Given the option now to go back to school or to continue Hunting… I'd pick the Hunt. It's taken me a couple of years to really understand something that Dean's known all his life. I _know_ what's out there, I _know _that true evil exists, therefore I have a responsibility to protect to the best of my ability the people who _don't_ know about these things."

In the room next door, Dean dropped the shotgun he was cleaning. With the door between the two rooms open, and neither Lupin nor Sam making any effort to be quiet, he was able to follow their conversation quite easily. _Damn, Sammy. _With a smile, he picked up the shotgun and finished cleaning it. _I thought you might have figured it out finally, but this is the first you've actually admitted it._

* * *

**A/N2:** Wow, a whole chapter and Harry's still unconscious… I didn't mean for that to happen. In any case, the next chapter should have the arrival of Bobby and Harry's return to awakesville. 

Reviews let me know if there's anything I need to fix.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I'm so totally _not_ a Harry/Ginny shipper – even though that's canon. The only exception to this is when Ginny is completely out of the picture… So, yeah. In other news, this story's version of Dean was demanding a bit more screen-time. Yeah, I'm weak, but he's so cute… Anyway, I hope you like what he does in this chapter.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Time unknown, October 10, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Harry was dreaming. He knew this, but it brought no comfort.

"_I just wish…" Ginny trailed off, her eyes focused on the lake reflecting the riot of color of an early fall sunset._

"_Shush, Gin. Wishing doesn't fix anything," Harry reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear._

_Ginny looked back at Harry. He was lounging against the base of a tree trunk. "I know. It's just… this has all been so – I don't know. Horrible springs to mind. So does frightening, terrifying, and intense. But… It's been good, too. I think I must be losing my mind, Harry. All the death, the destruction. Is it bad of me to want to forget about it for a while? For me to be happy, here with you, when so many others are dead or dying?"_

_Harry sat up and pulled Ginny close, "No, Gin. It's not bad. It's just life."_

"_You're sure?" she had tears welling up in her warm, brown eyes._

"_Yeah, love. I'm sure. Because I feel that way, too."_

_The scene melted in a dizzying whirlwind of color. _No! Take me back to Ginny, damn it!_ The dream didn't listen – they never did. Harry was standing on the top of the Astronomy Tower._ No! Not this, not again!_ Ginny was leaning against the parapet, looking out over the Forbidden Forest. Her breath was visible in the starlight, puffing out in little white clouds. Harry watched as a silent, sparkling tear traced its way down her cheek. Unable to stop the power of his memory, he stepped forward. "Ginny?"_

_She didn't speak until he was right next to her. "Does it hurt, do you think?"_

"_Dying?"_

_She nodded._

_Harry shook his head, "I don't know."_

"_Who does?"_

"_Dunno… Maybe the ghosts?"_

_She still stared out over the night-shrouded forest, "I asked Sir Nick, but he said he didn't really remember the details of the process of dying."_

"_Myrtle didn't either."_

"_When did you talk to her? Was it after Sirius?"_

_Harry shook his head, "No, back in second year."_

"_I hated that year."_

"_So did I."_

_The two of them stood in comfortable silence for several minutes before Ginny spoke again. "What comes next?"_

_Harry's heart was hammering in his chest and he knew he was thrashing around on the bed, but it didn't stop the dream. _I don't want to see this again! You hear me, you motherfuckers? Wake up, wake up, wake up!_ There was no sign of his struggle within the confines of his dream. His dream self shook his head, "I'm almost ready. I'm going to end this, I promise. After that, then… Then you'll finish school and we'll see if we can't scare Snape into retirement, yeah?"_

_Ginny smiled, though had it been even two days earlier, the comment would have had her laughing. "Ten kids, right?"_

"_Five girls, with hair just like yours…"_

"…_and five boys who can all out-fly their daddy." Ginny leaned over and kissed Harry._

NO! I know what's next and I can't fucking watch it again, please! God, not again!_ Even in the dream/memory, Harry didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind him until it was too late. The snobbish tone of Draco Malfoy was the first sign to Harry all was not right with the world. "Well, isn't this sweet. Tell me, Potter, did the Weasel know you were screwing his sister before you got him killed, or is it something he had to wait until now to find out?"_

_Harry and Ginny sprang apart, both going for their wands, but Draco already had his out. "Expelliarmus! Now, we can't have any of that, now can we?" he taunted, deftly catching the wands as they hurtled towards him._

"_Bugger off, Ferret-Boy, and give us our wands back." Harry stepped to stand between Draco and Ginny._

_Draco smiled. A cold, cruel, calculating smirk that drained what little life and warmth the Slytherin usually possessed from his face. "No. I don't think so, Potter. Not this time." He aimed his wand at Harry, and before he could move, he was bound to the parapet. The spell Draco had used wasn't one that Harry had studied. _I know now he'd created it just for that night. I still don't want to see this! Wake up, Potter! It's just a dream, just a memory! Fucking wake the fuck up already!_ "I wonder, Potter, just how the Dark Lord will reward me for breaking you?"_

_Ginny had also been caught by Draco's spell and was bound to the parapet next to Harry. "Shut up, Malfoy. Someone like you _can't_ break Harry – haven't you learned that by now?"_

"_Silencio," Malfoy lazily drawled. "Oh, but you see, you stupid little Blood-Traitor whore, I _can_ break Potter. And I will."_

Don't, please, no more. Please, no more. _His dream self was still caught reenacting that cold, January night at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Harry laughed. "You're still under that delusional impression that Voldemort gives a damn about you? How thick can you get?"_

"_Silencio. Oh, Potter," Malfoy's tone was laced with mock-pity, "I don't expect you to understand just yet, but you will. You will."_

No, I understand, you motherfucker. I just don't want to see this again. Please._ He watched as Draco finite'd the spell holding Ginny to the stone railing. He felt the surge of pride he'd felt then when she wasted no time and decked Draco with all her strength, the feeling mingling queasily with the sick despair he had from knowing what came next. He struggled ineffectively against the binding spell when Draco slapped Ginny and wound his hand in her long, red hair. "I think I'm going to enjoy this," he said, forcing Ginny to her knees and aiming his wand at her. "I've been practicing, you know. Just biding my time and waiting for the perfect opportunity. I suppose I should thank you for this, Potter – after all, this really is all because of you."_

NO! No, no, nonononono. _Harry tried to close his eyes against what he knew was coming, but it didn't work. It never worked. "Crucio." Ginny's body crumpled to the stone floor of the tower, twitching with the power of the curse, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide, staring unseeingly up at the clear night sky._

_Malfoy held the spell on her for what felt like years. Minutes ticked by, and still the spell was held strong. Ginny bit through her tongue and her lip, the blood trickled across her freckled chin and down her neck to be absorbed by her red-and-gold Gryffindor scarf. The spell wasn't lifted until her eyes rolled into her head and blood started to drip from her ears and nose. Malfoy, shaking a little from magical exhaustion, tucked his wand away and landed a solid kick in Ginny's side. He stepped up to where Harry was bound. "I have to say, Potter, that was probably the most fun I've ever had." He lightly slapped Harry's face, "However, I must be going now. Ta!" Draco spat in his face and tossed his and Ginny's wands onto the stone floor before activating a portkey and disappearing._

_Once the blonde was gone, the spell holding him to the parapet dissolved, as did the silencio. Harry didn't even think about calling out, though. He stumbled forward and collapsed next to Ginny, cradling her head in his lap. The starlight glittered across the blood staining her face and gleamed in the thick, white tendrils that now marred her red mane._

Harry was thankful when the dream dissolved and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

* * *

_11:00 pm, October 10, 2007  
Room 216, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Dean had finished cleaning all the guns, oiling and sharpening their knives, and checking on their supplies of things like lighter fluid, salt, and holy water. He wasn't in the mood for television, and listening in on Sam's conversation with the scarred man in the red sweater had rapidly gotten boring when it had taken a turn to discussing the relative merits of an author Dean didn't know anything about. Pacing quickly lost its appeal, and he wasn't in the right frame of mind to search out a bar for pool or companionship.

His mind wandered back to the websites he'd read through earlier and the information he'd learned regarding the physics of magic. Contrary to his brother's apparent assumptions as to his intelligence, Dean knew he was a bit smarter than the average guy; it was just that his intelligence wasn't in words and thoughts – it was in making things work. If he knew how something was _supposed_ to work, he could fix it or change it to do something similar. It was how he'd made their EMF, after all. He took the knowledge of how a radio receiver worked, tweaked it to pick up on a different set of frequencies, removed the tape deck, and added a few indicator lights and a needle-meter. It wasn't hard. Just like when he rebuilt the Impala – he knew how it was supposed to go together in order to run properly when he was done, and so he'd just done what he needed to. Now, he wasn't thinking along the lines of electricity and radio frequencies or fuel-to-air ratios, but along the lines of magic.

_Hmm… The site said that certain stones had an inherent magical capacity, that's why salt works the way it does, after all. Heh, and I always laughed at those freaks who would drone on about the 'crystal energy'. Guess they were more right than me. Quartz draws magic – that kinda makes sense, what with it having an electrical charge when compressed. Isn't that the mechanism in a lot of watches and those cheap clicky-lighters? Cobalt acts like a capacitor for magic. So that's draw and storage… How would it trigger, though?_ Dean strode into Harry's room, ignoring everyone, seized Harry's laptop, and retreated back to his and Sam's room. Poking around on the same websites as before, he soon had his answer. "Yahtzee," he grinned. "That'll do."

_Of course, that's only part of it. Still need to address the whole 'type and intent of magic'. Didn't I read that the color of the quartz used influences that? Yeah, here it is. 'Quartz crystal… blah, blah, blah… color pertaining to the intent of use. See chart 23.' Rose – love, no surprise there. Clear – healing. Huh. Whatever. Next, yellow – conjuration. Here we go, smoky – destruction or luck. What the fuck? How can it have two designations that are so totally opposite? _Dean clicked on the link for that particular subtype of quartz. _Ah, that's how. 'In its raw state, smoky quartz attracts luck, be it good or bad. When the raw stone is polished, the act of destroying part of the stone transmutates its draw to that of destructive energies only.'_

"Okay, I need a list. Some polished smoky quartz, cobalt, the stock and a parts-kit for a .22 Beretta semi-auto… Oh, yeah, can't forget that. Gold firing pin. Hmm... Anything else…" He turned his attention back to the computer and eventually added yew to his shopping list. Using his debit card, he managed to order everything from Harry's computer – which just proved Dean's theory that one could buy _anything_ off the internet. The website promised 'Delivery within an hour or your next order is on us!' He wasn't disappointed. Less than ten minutes after he'd submitted his order, there was a knock at his door. Looking through the window, he saw a gruff, older man wearing a set of green-gray overalls that sported the logo of the web company. Dean grinned, opened the door, and signed for the order. The man handed him a tiny box, no larger than a match box.

"I'd set it on the floor, if I was you, mister," the delivery man warned before spinning on his heel and disappearing with a _crack_. Dean followed the man's advice and sat it on the floor next to the foot of his bed. One heartbeat, two, three… Suddenly the box grew to its proper proportions. It stood level with the bed, was about three feet long and about the same in width. Dean's grin grew and he sliced the tape open with his pocket knife.

* * *

_12:10 am, October 11, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Severus scrubbed a hand across his face. There wasn't much more he could do until he got some sleep, and sleep was definitely sounding better and better. Between his experiments of the day before, being dragged halfway around the world, and ransacking Potter's potions kit between diagnostic spells and sedating the foolhardy Gryffindor, he was completely wiped. He set a monitoring spell on Potter, conjured a cot, and said, "If you two want to continue your ceaseless chattering, do it somewhere else," before turning the lights off.

Sam and Remus exchanged a glance in the low light coming from the room next door, shrugged, and made their way to the adjoining door. After closing the door behind them, Sam stopped short at the sight of his brother. Both the window and the door were open, and Dean was crouched on a collapsed cardboard box in front of them, running the bright blue flame of a cutting torch over the outside of an ammunition magazine he held with a pair of pliers. Dean's bed was covered in gun parts, rocks, small bars of a bluish metal, and several long dowels of a pale white wood. The toolbox from the car was sitting on the floor between Dean and the bed.

"Dude, what are you_ doing_?" Sam asked, not having moved from the door to room 217.

Dean didn't bother looking away from what he was doing. "What's it look like, Sammy?"

"Like you've lost your mind."

Dean chuckled, "Not at all. Just had an idea and I wanted to see if it would work."

"This is like the thermal scanner, isn't it?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know if this'll work, though."

"Pardon?" Remus was confused.

Sam shook his head at his brother before turning his attention to Remus. "Dean… Likes to tinker with stuff. He built our EMF meter out of an old walkman, and the thermal scanner out of a camera that had night-vision capabilities and a couple of CD players he salvaged from a junkyard."

"I didn't hear you complaining when they worked," Dean commented, shutting off the torch. He got to his feet, carried the mag through the room to the bathroom and ran it under cold water.

"So what is he making now?" Remus asked, looking at the multitude of oddities on Dean's bed.

"I have no idea," Sam admitted.

At that moment, Dean's cell rang. "You wanna get that, Sam?"

Sam seized the phone from the bedside table, "Hello?"

"It's Bobby. I'm about five miles outside New Orleans and heading your way."

"Good to hear. We're in the Super 8 just off the second exit coming into town from that side. Room 216."

"I'll be there in about forty minutes."

Sam sat Dean's phone back on the bedside table and sighed a little as he looked over the mass of junk on Dean's bed. Dean returned to the room, examining the magazine as he deftly stepped over and around the two bags of clothes, the one containing all the weapons out of the trunk of the car, and the one that Dean had transferred their ammunition, salt, and miscellaneous other supplies to. "Oh, dude, before I forget, we're almost out of consecrated iron shot, and it wouldn't hurt to do another set of salt rounds, too." He knelt by the toolbox and fished out a metal file.

"We'll need to stop by Jefferson's when we're done here, then."

Dean nodded, running a finger over the top of the magazine. He held it up to the light and filed away a spar of blue metal. "May want to see about getting a new machete, too. The one with the plastic grips has a stress fracture halfway down the blade – one too many decapitations, I guess. This time, let's spring for something not on clearance, hmm?"

"Whatever," Sam dismissed the comment. At the time they'd bought the machete – shortly before Sam had left for Stanford – they'd only had a hundred bucks on them.

Remus was still looking curiously at the assortment of junk on Dean's bed. "What are you trying to do?"

Dean's eyes flickered up to Lupin and back to the magazine he was working on. "What's it to you, professor?" Yeah, Dean had caught that portion of Sam's conversation with the man.

"Dean!" Sam started to chastise his brother, but Remus cut him off with a raised hand.

"Don't, Sam. I can handle this." Remus picked up one of the dowels. "This is yew," he sat it back down. "And you've got cobalt and smoky quartz. I assume these," he gestured over the miscellaneous other parts, "are bits of a muggle handgun. Just guessing, but I would assume you are trying to make a combination of a gun and a wand."

Dean ran his fingers over the top of the magazine again, "Not exactly."

"How'd you come up with that?" Sam asked.

Remus leveled a wry smile at Sam, "Clearly, you never met the Weasley twins. They toyed with something like this during the War," the word was quite obviously capitalized in Remus' tone, "but couldn't get it to work."

Dean sat the mag and the file down and picked up one of the dowels, his pocket knife, and the barrel section of the disassembled gun on the bed. "They weren't me." He measured the length of the barrel against the dowel and marked the wood before setting the barrel down again. "The only part of this I'm not too sure about is it working at all… If the website was right about how these things interact, then it _will_ work. If it was wrong, then I've managed to waste a couple of hours."

"What website?" Remus asked; unlike most European wizards, he did have more than a passing understanding of technology. Often, the only places he could find employment was in the muggle world. He also knew that American wizards had a tendency to blend magic with their love of technology.

"Um…" Dean broke the dowel at the marked section and started trimming the short piece of wood with his knife. "Something called 'MagusWiki-dot-magi'."

"'Wiki' as in Wikipedia?" Sam said.

Dean shrugged, "That's what I said."

Remus and Sam took seats on Sam's bed and watched Dean work on his project. Sam still wasn't too clear on what Dean was hoping to accomplish; Remus had an idea, but he decided not to comment further – he could tell that he set Dean on-edge. He was pretty sure he knew why, too, but he wasn't going to volunteer the information.

Finished with the dowel, Dean sat it down and began working on the barrel section of the gun with his cutting torch. The hole he cut was roughly two inches long, a couple of millimeters wide, and ran parallel to the length of the barrel. After cooling it in the sink, he filed the rough edges away and set to attaching a small, straight pin-spring halfway down the length of the hole. When that was done, he turned his attention to a piece of quartz that was somewhat mushroom-shaped, with one end the same diameter of the bore on the gun barrel and the other end shaped something like a contact lens. He picked up a tool Sam knew for a fact they hadn't owned earlier in the day and proceeded to thread the stem on the piece of quartz. _The gun he's messing with must have been bored for a silencer_, Sam noted.

With the quartz threaded, he screwed it into place on the gun barrel. Then he dropped a small coil-spring down the barrel, followed by the piece of wood. Holding his thumb over the open end, he attached a small screw to the wood through the hole in the barrel; the screw was the distinctive black shade of iron. _Iron is magically inert,_ Remus thought, catching on to what, precisely, Dean was trying to do and realizing where the twins had gone wrong in their experiments.

Once he'd finished with the barrel of the gun, Dean quickly reassembled the rest of the weapon. Sam let out a little huff noise when he saw the gold firing pin. Dean merely smirked at him and slid the modified magazine into the handle. He sat the finished product down on the bed before standing and stretching, "Well, what do you think, Sam?"

Sam reached over and picked it up. "I think you're nuts."

"You won't think so if it works."

"What's it supposed to do?"

Dean grinned, "What do guns do?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Kill things."

Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at Sam, "Yahtzee."

"But, Dean… This one isn't…"

"Come on," Dean snagged it out of Sam's hand. "How 'bout we try it before you dismiss it." He snagged an empty water bottle from the trash and was out the door before Sam could argue with him.

Remus got to his feet and followed Dean outside. Sam sighed again and followed them down to the parking lot. Once there, Dean handed the bottle to Sam. "Target practice. I don't know for sure what this will do, so I'd rather aim _over_ the buildings."

"I get the idea," Sam snapped, snagging the bottle. "Whenever you're ready."

Dean fiddled with the modified Beretta for a moment, rolled his shoulders and nodded at Sam. "Pull!"

Sam threw the bottle as high and hard as he could. The city lights glinted off of the shiny plastic, making it easy to see. Dean tracked it through its flight and just as it reached the apex of Sam's throw, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The nearly silent _click-tick_ of the hammer connecting with the firing pin and the firing pin connecting with the wood definitely didn't do justice to the bolt of green-tinged light that burst from the crystal attached to the end of the barrel. When the light connected with the water bottle, both simply ceased to exist. A waft of ozone was the only lingering physical evidence. Dean's earlier smirk had nothing on his smile. "Son of a bitch! That was even cooler than I thought it'd be!" He stopped short and laughed at Sam's expression. "Close your mouth, Sammy, before something lands in it."

"That… shouldn't be possible."

Dean shot Sam an innocent look, "Dude, with our lives, _anything's_ possible."

The sound of slow clapping dragged Dean's attention back to Lupin. "Impressive," the man in the red sweater said. "You will, of course, want to be careful with that."

"Ya think?" Dean's reply was sarcastic and automatic. He never did have much in the way of patience for people who thought they knew weapons when they obviously had no clue what they were talking about.

The light from a pair of headlamps cut across the parking lot and Dean stuffed the modified Beretta into his waistband, covering it with the hem of his t-shirt. A mid-sized anonymous four-door import pulled into an empty spot and turned off. Bobby's familiar baseball cap appeared through the opening door, followed quickly by the rest of him. "Dean! Sam! Come unload for me while I get a room."

"Sure thing, Bobby," Dean called back across the lot, hurrying to the rental car. "We're in 216 and 217. I think 215 is still empty."

Bobby nodded and headed for the motel lobby. Sam, with Remus at his heels, caught up to Dean and opened the trunk of the rental car. Dean let out a low whistle, "I hafta wonder if Bobby left anything at home?"

Sam shrugged, "You've seen his place – you tell me."

Dean handed Sam Bobby's duffel bag and a green army-surplus ammo box, taking a large wooden crate for himself. Remus stepped forward, "I'll help." Dean looked at the man, who was nearly the exact same height as Sam, though had far less in the way of body mass. _He looks like a stiff breeze'd send him flying._ Remus smiled, knowing exactly what Dean was thinking and said, "I _am_ stronger than I look."

"You'd have to be," Dean muttered, letting the man take the crate. Remus wrapped his left hand through one of the crate's rope handles and swung it up onto his shoulder. Holding out his right hand he snapped a couple of times to indicate he could carry something else. Dean shrugged a little, _If the dude wants to fall over, that's his business,_ and handed him the blue metal five-gallon can of holy water. He and Sam watched in silence as Remus walked lightly over to the stairs to the second floor.

As Remus ascended the stairs, Sam whispered to Dean, "You know, you just might be right about him… That had to have been what, a hundred pounds of stuff?"

"Closer to a hundred-twenty. I think the crate was full of books." Dean grabbed the remaining two bags and shut the trunk with a _bang_.

By the time Bobby made it up to Dean and Sam's room, Dean had managed to get the majority of the spare parts for his latest project cleaned off his bed; the newest addition to the arsenal sat innocuously on the table by the window. "You were right, 215 was empty," Bobby said, stepping into the room. He eyed the odd-looking gun on the table, nodded in satisfaction at the white line of salt encircling the room, and let his gaze come to a rest on Dean, Sam, and a man he didn't know. He took a breath and said, "Christo." No one flinched and Bobby grinned. "Well, no one's possessed – have to say, it's a step in the right direction. Now, boys, why don't you introduce me to your friend here and then we can get down to business."

Remus smiled, he liked the man's no-nonsense attitude. He stepped forward and offered his hand, "Remus Lupin."

Bobby shook it, "Bobby Singer." He took a closer look at the man, "You're a long way from home, ain't ya?"

Remus chuckled, "Ah, I guess you could say so, Mr. Singer."

"Mr. Singer was my pop – you can call me Bobby."

"Certainly," Remus replied.

Bobby looked past Remus and told Sam, "Crack open that crate. I came prepared." He looked around the room again, "Where's that door go?"

"To the room next door – Harry's room," Sam replied, unlatching the rough wooden crate and opening it.

"He awake?"

"No," Remus replied. "He's… not feeling well at the moment. I don't think it would be wise to wake him." This was certainly true, but as Harry was heavily sedated, Remus' worry was more for Severus' reaction to being roused after only an hour or so of sleep.

"Hmm…" Bobby could tell he wasn't being told the whole story. He'd address that in a moment, however. "Too bad there ain't another door into my room. Would make things a little easier, but I'll work with what we've got," he faced Sam again. "Hand me that bundle of papers. Dean, in the black duffel, I've got a staple-gun. Get it."

Remus stepped out of the Hunters' way and watched as Bobby directed Sam and Dean to affix a piece of large paper on the ceiling just inside the door. "I have a couple more of these, so we can put one in each room." The paper sported one of the many designs detailed in_ The Lesser Key of Solomon_. Remus shook his head a little,_ They might be muggles, but they certainly know their business._ He removed his wand from his pocket and decided to make himself useful.

Keeping in mind the layout of both this room and Harry's, Remus walked over to a section of wall that was the least likely to cause any problems with the motel's electrical lines and plumbing and aimed his wand at it. "Prodeo ostium." A door that looked similar to the one leading to Harry's room melted into existence from the wall.

A metallic clicking noise drew Remus' attention back to the other men in the room. He saw that Sam was standing on tiptoe, holding up a corner of the large paper with the devil's trap drawn on it, while Dean stood on a chair with the staple-gun in one hand. Bobby, however, had a small pistol cocked and aimed at Remus. "Bobby!" Sam exclaimed, "Put it away!"

"But –"

"No, Bobby – Sam's right. Put it away, and we'll explain in a minute," Dean's voice was soothing, like he was talking to a frightened child or trying to coax a skittish puppy over to him.

Remus held his hands up, his wand still held loosely. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt anybody."

Bobby uncocked the pistol, but didn't lower it. "What _are_ you?"

"I'm a wizard, Mr. Singer… Bobby. I specialize in defensive magics, though I'm a fair hand at transfiguration," he nodded towards the new door.

Dean quickly finished stapling the trap in place and jumped off the chair. "Bobby, chill. Sam and me have known about people like Lupin here since July – when we met Harry. Harry's a wizard as well as a Hunter. This guy was one of his teachers."

Remus slowly lowered his hands and tucked his wand back into his pocket. Bobby lowered the pistol. "You boys have some _serious_ explaining to do," Bobby said, claiming the chair Dean had been standing on. "Start talking."

* * *

_6:32 am, October 11, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Harry's consciousness swam up out of the murky depths of dreamless oblivion, thankfully bypassing any more dreams on its way. It took several moments for his brain to engage and allow him to recognize the plain blue-green paint on the wall he was staring at. _Motel… Where? Oh, yeah. Louisiana._ With a gasp he bolted upright, throwing his blankets off. _Fucking power-leech… Dream? Merlin, I hope it was a dream._

"Lay back down, Potter, before I'm forced to tie you down."

_I know that voice…_ Harry looked to his left. "Snape," his voice was flat. _I suppose this means it wasn't a bad dream._

"Indeed, Potter."

Harry scrubbed a shaking hand across his face. "I can't believe they actually managed to find you."

Snape scoffed, "_They_ didn't."

"Then how –" Harry stopped himself, "Oh. They must have called Leanne." He winced a little, imagining her reaction. "Sorry about that."

"Stop with the apologizing, Potter. I am not here to hear you talk." Snape crossed the room to Harry's potions kit and grabbed two vials of Pepper-Up and an Energizing Elixir. He handed them to Harry. Harry downed the contents of the three vials. Some of the fuzziness in his head dissipated. "Is it too much to assume you have something resembling a cauldron among your things?"

Harry nodded and wished he hadn't, "In the saddlebag." His eyes were dry and scratchy and his head was pounding. "Hand me a fever-reducer, would you?"

"No," Snape replied, his attention on the black leather bag. He was already regretting his decision to wake Potter before Lupin returned from wherever it was he'd gone after Severus had gone to bed.

"Why not? I can fucking tell when I'm running a temperature, Snape."

"Use that mass of grey tissue currently housed between your ears, Potter. What's the main ingredient of a fever-reducing potion?" _Just how much junk does the brat carry around with him?_ Severus gave up rooting through the bag and simply dumped its contents out on the dresser.

"How the fuck should I know? It's been what, ten years or more since I was in your classes?" Harry's headache seemed to be getting worse, _Either that, or its just an allergic reaction to all things Snape._ "I don't bother brewing unless I've got no choice. Hell, I can't remember the last time I used the fucking cauldron."

Spotting a miniature cauldron in among the pile of doll-sized bags and boxes, Snape muttered a resizing charm and swept the mess back into the saddlebag. "It was covered in your third year, Potter."

"I don't know, Snape. Quit fucking with me."

"I see leaving home has done nothing for your vocabulary," Snape moved the cauldron off the dresser and to the floor. Some quick wand-work had it sitting over a conjured unidirectional flame – a fire that would only send heat upwards, into the cauldron.

"Bite me."

"I think not," Snape filled the cauldron halfway with an oil base he had brought with him.

"Are you going to tell me or should I just get up and get the damn potion myself?"

Severus added three drams of salamander blood. "By all means, help yourself. Of course, when the oxidized dragon blood in the fever-reducer reacts with the silver nitrate in this and melts your skin off, don't expect me to fix it for you."

Harry, who was halfway out of bed, flopped back down onto the pillows. "You could have just said so, you fucking bastard."

Severus smiled down into the cauldron, his hair screening his expression from Harry. _Though I would pay good money to see it, I don't want to have to clean the mess up._ He stirred the cauldron six times in a figure-eight with his wand.

* * *

**A/N2:** And this is where I think this chapter should end. This chapter pretty much wrote itself – I love it when that happens. I had originally intended for Dean's experiment to fail, but he told me – in no uncertain terms – that he wasn't going to cooperate for the rest of the story if I made him look incompetent. He can be very persuasive. 

Review and let me know if this is still running in the right direction.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And here's part five for y'all. I hope I did well.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_7:12 am, October 11, 2007  
Room 215, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

"Don't you fucking _dare_ go down that road again, you fucking son of a bitch!"

The arguing from room 217 had clearly escalated in the last half an hour, but the last shout was loud enough to rouse Bobby two rooms away. Glancing at the bedside clock, he groaned at the early hour and dragged himself out of bed. _Somebody had better be bleeding_. Glaring lightly at his softly snoring roommate, _What was his name again? Something Lupus? _Bobby pulled his jeans on and grabbed a clean t-shirt… well, one that had been washed recently, at any rate. There wasn't enough stain-stick on the planet to completely remove the grease stains._ No. Lupin. That's it. Remus Lupin._

He poked his head through the open doorway to Sam and Dean's room. Both of the Winchesters were up and dressed, standing and staring at the door that led to room 217. "Dude… Should we…?" Sam made a vague motion towards the door.

Dean shook his head, "I don't think so. This sounds like it could get violent – besides, it's not like it's really our business."

Another shout reverberated through the closed door, "I'm not arguing that, you fuckwit! I admit it – I was stupid! I was also _fifteen fucking years old_! How the fuck was I supposed to know he was dicking with me when no one told me a _Goddamn_ _thing_? It was always 'Oh, do this, Harry – it's for your own good' without so much as a single fucking _word_ of explanation!"

Snape's reply was too low to make out clearly, but it spurred Harry to fling open the door connecting the two rooms. Harry's expression was rather frightening; he was obviously still sick – as evidenced by the waxy paleness of his complexion – and his normally messy hair was sticking up at all angles, as though he'd just ridden for an hour on his motorcycle without his helmet. His eyes, circled by dark rings, were open wide enough that whites showed all around his irises; his nostrils were flaring; and the corners of his mouth were pulled back far enough to display his molars, though it was most definitely _not_ a smile. He was still wearing the same pair of faded, thoroughly rumpled, blue jeans he'd been wearing the day before, with no shirt, and his socks had disappeared sometime during his sleep. He paused for only half a heartbeat on seeing Dean and Sam standing within feet of him. "Dean – give me your gun, I'm gonna kill him."

"Whoa there, Harry…" Dean stumbled backwards until he ran into the wall. _I've seen demons that didn't look this unhinged_. "Isn't he the only one who can get that thing off your back?"

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!"

Dean, Bobby, and Sam all winced at the volume of the roar that issued from Harry's mouth.

In room 215, Remus startled awake and managed to fall off the bed. Fighting his way out of the tangle of sheets and blankets, Remus sprinted into room 216. "Harry James Potter! Cool it!"

The effect on Harry was instantaneous. Some of the tension in his posture drained away and he leaned to the side to peer around Sam. "Remus?"

Remus leaned against the transfigured doorframe, for once not slouching or stooping, and when combined with his blue-and-white striped pajamas, looked impossibly tall. "Heard you got in a spot of trouble."

Harry let out a little chuckle, "Yeah, you might say that."

Stepping around the Winchester brothers, he spared a momentary glance at Bobby before coming to a halt in front of Remus. "I'd give you a hug, but…"

Remus smiled kindly, "Don't worry – I'll take a rain check."

"You're looking well, for a change."

"I've been writing lately. It's amazing what a steady income can do for one's health. You, on the other hand, look like something that's gone four rounds with one of Hagrid's more interesting pets."

"Feels like it, too," Harry replied with the tiniest of smiles.

"Can you give me a moment to get dressed?"

Harry nodded. "No problem."

"And you won't kill Severus?"

Harry shrugged, "I'm not going to promise _anything_ on that score."

"Then don't go back to your room. If you find that difficult, I'm sure your friends would be happy to help you out." Remus waited for Harry to nod again before ducking back into room 215 to change into a pair of slacks and a brown sweater.

While Remus was changing, Harry turned around and smiled sheepishly at the Winchesters and the man he'd not yet met. "I probably woke everyone up, didn't I?"

"Yeah, for three or four states," Dean replied.

"Sorry for that. I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," Sam said.

"Yeah, no problem. Sounded like you had good reason to fly off the handle," Dean added. "Not that we really heard anything of the other half of your… um… chat."

Deciding that now was as good a time as any to change the subject, Harry motioned to the man standing near the door through which Remus had disappeared. "Who are you?"

"Oh, sorry," Sam jumped forward to make introductions. "Harry Potter, this is Bobby Singer. He's another Hunter, specializes in demonology."

"Pleasure," Harry bowed a little in Bobby's direction. "I'd shake hands, but –"

Bobby waived him off, "It's fine. The boys filled me in last night."

"Potter!" Snape appeared in the doorway to room 217, holding his wand in one hand and a jar half full of grey powder in his other. "We were not finished."

"Yeah," Sam said, facing the wizard, "you are. For now."

Severus' sense of personal preservation kicked in when he saw the unrelenting protective glint in Sam's gaze. The same glint was also shining through Dean's expression. He knew that the edge of fear he held over people in the UK – for either being a Death Eater or for having been a professor at Hogwarts – didn't apply to the two Winchesters; he had never been their teacher, and he seriously doubted that anyone had told them about his role during the war with Voldemort. He sneered a little to cover his unease. "I need a blood sample from Potter sometime in the next twenty minutes," he said before abruptly returning to Harry's room.

Remus reappeared, fully dressed, "Was that Severus I just heard?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah."

"Seemed like a class-A jerk to me," Bobby muttered.

Harry and Remus exchanged a look and chuckled. "That's putting it mildly, Bobby," Remus said. "But he _does_ know what he's doing. He said he needed a blood sample, right?"

Harry nodded again. Dean and Sam exchanged a look this time, and simultaneously asked, "How much?"

Remus looked from Harry to the Winchesters, "If memory serves, he needs about five milliliters, but you might want to double-check that with him."

Dean said to Sam, "You run down to the car and bring up the first aid kit – I'll ask Snape how much he needs." He paused just before entering Harry's room and looked at the shorter man. "Take a seat, Harry, before you fall over."

Harry followed Dean's advice and sat on the edge of Sam's bed while Sam went out to the Impala and Dean went to talk to Snape. Remus sat next to Harry, taking care to sit close enough that his presence was felt, but far enough so that they wouldn't accidentally touch. Bobby saw the leech on Harry's back, ringed by bruised and puffy flesh, and shook his head, _It surely don't seem like much._ His attention fell on the row of tattoos on Harry's lower back. There were three larger ones, with rows of small writing on either side of the central three. _I'll be damned,_ Bobby thought, stepping a little closer for a clearer look at the abstract designs. _That one's a sigil against possession by demons, and that one's for protecting against possession by spirits. What's that third one, though? I don't think I've seen it before._ "What's that lower sigil on your back?"

Harry turned his head around to look at Bobby, "What?"

"The tattoos on your back. I know one's to protect against demonic possession, one's for protection against a spirit doing the same, but I ain't seen the other one. What's it for?"

"Similar protection from living beings," Harry replied.

"How's that work? I ain't heard of a living person possessing someone."

"I would imagine," Remus said, "that it's not so much a problem in the muggle world. It's the result of a spell called the imperio curse. It took a full five months of research – ten of us working on it, twenty hour days – to come up with the protective mark. Harry agreed to test the prototype when we were done, because if it didn't work he wouldn't be completely unprotected."

"Remus!" Harry tried his best to protest what he knew was coming.

"Hush, Harry, and let me brag. I don't get to nearly as much as I used to," Remus grinned at Bobby. "In a normal person, the spell strips its victim of free will. With someone like Harry here, who is far more stubborn than is healthy, the supposed victim can fight off the curse. Fighting it takes time and concentration, and at the time, we needed a way to stop the curse before it could take root in its victims."

"So… Does it work?"

Remus and Harry both nodded. "It does, but it has to be drawn with a specially-designed ink," Harry explained.

Dean wandered back in the room at that moment, peering at a piece of paper. "Dude, he has some of the _worst_ handwriting I've ever seen. He said he needed the things on this list, but I can't make heads or tails out of it. That first line, it says _what_? Two-point-five ounces of 'bicycle hope'? What the hell is that?"

Harry laughed and snagged the paper from Dean. Looking over the list, he said, "No, it's two-point-five ounces of _bicorn horn_. One of the ingredients I don't often carry with me. Let's see… Mandragora extract, lacewing flies, bloodwort, stinging nettle, and clove oil. Yeah, I don't carry any of those with me."

"What do you use on your sword, then?" Dean asked, remembering the ruby-hilted blade from the naga encounter in July.

Harry shrugged, "It's an enchanted blade. I don't have to do any maintenance on it."

"Really? Must be nice," Dean said as he leaned on the dresser.

Sam returned, interrupting Harry's reply and carrying a large red plastic toolbox. He sat it down on the top of the dresser next to Dean with a _thunk_. "When was the last time we cleaned this thing out, Dean?"

"Um… Don't remember. We still have that syringe in there, don't we?"

Sam nodded and unlatched the box. "Should still be there – I know _I_ haven't used it for anything."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean glared at Sam.

Sam smiled innocently, "Nothing. Just that I'm surprised you haven't decided to turn it into a blowgun or something." Sam's smile fell when he noticed Dean's thoughtful expression. He reached out with one of his freakishly long arms and lightly smacked Dean on the back of his head.

"Dude!" Dean ducked away from his brother. "What was that for?"

"Dean, you are _not_ making a blowgun."

Dean shrugged, a cockeyed little smirk on his face, "Whatever, Francis."

"I mean it, Dean!"

Bobby sighed and crossed the room in three strides and smacked both Winchesters in the back of their heads. "Enough, already!" The action made Remus and Harry both chuckle, which earned them identical glares from Dean and Sam.

With everyone awake, the amount of malicious snarking between Snape and Harry was brought to a screeching halt, even if the total level of snark in the Hunters' rooms remained constant – Dean and Sam filled silences with good-natured ribbing, with Bobby adding his two-cents worth whenever he felt it was warranted. Dean got the blood sample from Harry while Sam used Harry's computer to order the odd-sounding ingredients on the list. Remus took the opportunity to ask the Hunters – Dean, Sam, Bobby, and Harry – for some more information about their occupation. When the ordered ingredients arrived, the group moved into Harry's room.

Sam handed the ingredients to Severus before helping Dean staple another devil's trap to the ceiling just inside the door to the balcony walkway. Bobby and Remus took seats in the room's two chairs, continuing a discussion on the development of runic magic during the Middle Ages – the timeframe during which much of the demonology lore Bobby used had been written. Harry sat on the bed, near to the bedside table, Dean perched on the trunk of books, and Sam did his best to ensure the wall beside the door to room 216 didn't fall down.

Severus mostly ignored the other people in the room as he worked. Though the potion aspect of the leech cure wasn't as automatic for him to brew as headache draughts and Pepper-Up, he had brewed it more times than he cared to remember; and even though it had been just over ten years since he'd last done so, the actions were still ingrained. It left most of his mind free to consider other points. _Nine, ten, eleven… Add three-quarters of the salamander ash, stir twice more, and let simmer for nine-point-six minutes. _Allowing his hair to curtain his face from the rest of the room, he examined the Winchesters a little more closely, particularly the shorter one.

_A power-leech does have some rudimentary instinct for what victims would allow it the highest possible survival rate. They never spread to someone who is mortally wounded, but he seems perfectly healthy._ His eyes flickered up to the symbol from _The Lesser Key of Solomon_. _However, things aren't always as they appear. They quite obviously know how to deal with magical things, despite being muggles. And if they know how to banish and ward against malevolent beings, is it too much of a stretch to assume that they could summon one if the need arose?_ Severus picked his wand up from where it lay next to several glass bottles and jars. He flicked it at Dean with a subtle motion of his wrist, taking care to make it appear as though the motion had something to do with the potion he was brewing. Tiny, glowing numerals appeared on the handle of his wand. _Two-hundred and fifty-two days? That spell shouldn't have come back with a reading that precise. Just what did you get yourself into?_

"Severus?" Remus' voice cut into Snape's thoughts.

"What?"

"Where did you put that paper with the spell translation on it?"

"Windowsill," Severus gestured in the direction of the window.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Severus." Remus picked up the piece of notebook paper and handed it to Bobby. "We know it's a modified binding spell – the original was used in emotive cord magic, usually love charms, but fell out of favor with the invention of love potions at the end of the thirteenth century."

"The original spell was just the lines that began with 'by knot of'," Harry supplied, his speech a little slurred. Though he was conscious, the fever associated with the leech had grown quite high since he awoke. "Remus… What – 'cause I can't remember – what is the significance of seven? A spet, no… Septagram. Yeah. Tha's the one with seven points, yeah?"

Dean, who had moved at some point to hovering over Bobby's shoulder in order to read the translation, looked up at Harry. "You look like a melting wax doll." He reached over and laid his hand on Harry's forehead, hissed through his teeth, and tugged Harry to his feet. "Come on, man. You're going to take a shower. Cool down some."

Harry shook his head, "No… Really. 'M fine."

"No," Dean insisted, "you're _not_. Don't argue with me." He led Harry around the small space Severus was occupying with his brewing.

Severus snorted in amusement as they went by, recalling an incident early in the fall of what would have been Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts – he'd been beaten so badly, he had bone poking through his thigh, but had still insisted he was 'fine'. "You would have a better chance of talking the sky into turning yellow than in getting Potter to admit he was anything less than his obnoxious self, Mr. Winchester."

"Are you sure there isn't anything we can give him to bring down his temperature, sir?"

Severus shook his head, "Nothing without disastrous and potentially lethal side-effects."

Dean sighed, "Then we do this the old-fashioned way. Sam, why don't you go get some ice?"

"How bad is it?" Sam asked, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on.

"Higher than yours was that time in Vermont when Dad took you to the ER." Sam winced and opened the door to the balcony. Dean paused in his efforts to pull a mostly-lethargic Harry into the bathroom. "Hang on a second, Sammy. Snape?"

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Will alcohol have any problems with what you're doing?"

"No, but I fail to follow your line of reasoning."

Sam caught on and answered Severus' implied demand for more information. "Alcohol thins your blood, which makes your capillaries open up further in an effort to compensate for the lower amount of oxygen reaching your tissue. The flush of blood to the surface of the skin makes it relatively easy to reduce temperature by external means."

"Thank you, college-boy," Dean rolled his eyes. "Since you said you can't use your magic to lower his temperature, we'll take care of it."

"Harry's got something of a phenomenal tolerance, though," Remus pointed out.

"Yeah, we saw that," Dean huffed and met Sam's eyes. "Everclear?"

Sam nodded, "I'll be right back."

It took nearly three full fifths of the 198-proof booze before Harry began showing any sign of the alcohol in his system, but once the tell-tale flush crept across his skin, Dean wasted no time getting him situated in an ice-water bath. It worked to bring his temperature back down to a reasonable level, but didn't do much for his attitude – however, the fact that his lips were now bluish and he couldn't stop shivering may have contributed to his temper. "J-j-just wh-what w-w-was th-that f-f-f-for, you s-s-sa-d-d-distic son of a b-b-b-itch?"

"Is that any way to thank me for making sure your brain didn't cook in your skull?" Dean tossed Harry some clothes he'd dug out of the shorter man's duffel bag.

"Ye-Yeah, b-b-b-but now I d-d-don't think I'm ev-v-ver gonna b-b-be warm again!"

"Potter!" Snape called from the main room.

"Sounds like he's done doing whatever the hell he was doing," Dean gestured to the jeans and t-shirt he'd handed Harry. "Get dressed," he said and left Harry alone in the bathroom.

"So, just how long will this take?" Dean asked Snape.

"Not long, perhaps three or four hours."

"That's your idea of 'not long'?" Dean shook his head, an unbelieving little smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"It_ is_ a rather intricate process," Severus replied, his tone Sahara-dry.

"Dean," Bobby said as he stood. "It's already coming up on noon. Maybe Sam and me should head on down to Leeville and take another look at the house there before we run out of daylight. You stay here and help your friend."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Bobby, "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"We'll be fine, Dean," Sam protested. "We're just going to take a closer look at the markings in that upstairs room, take a couple of pictures."

"You're sure that's _all_ you're gonna do?" Dean stressed. "'Cause, Sam, I really don't wanna hafta go rescue your ass_ again_."

"Promise. If we find ourselves needing to do anything drastic, like burn the place down, we'll make sure and come and get you for it," Sam grinned. "You're such a pyro, jerk."

"And you're such a girl, bitch. Be careful and call me immediately if anything happens."

"Were you coming with us, Remus?" Sam asked, checking his pockets to make sure he had his phone on him.

Remus looked towards the closed bathroom door and then to where Sam and Bobby were standing next to the door that lead to the parking lot, obviously torn. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, "Go with them, Lupin."

"You're sure you won't need any help?"

"I _have_ done this before."

"I know you have, Severus."

"Jesus," Bobby muttered at the ceiling before finishing in a slightly louder tone of voice, "Can we go? I'm sure if he needs your help, Dean can call us."

Once Sam, Lupin, and Bobby left, Dean turned to face Snape again. "What now, sir?"

"Potter!" Snape called out, his tone a little harsher than it was a moment before.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Harry reappeared. He'd taken the time to dry off and was no longer shivering, though his lips were still slightly blue. He'd not bothered with the t-shirt Dean had handed him. "You called?"

"On the bed, Potter. Face down, and have Mr. Winchester hold your arms down."

"Ooh, kinky," Dean quipped, then shut up when both Snape and Harry shot somewhat murderous glares at him. "Okay, I'll be quiet."

"I forgot how much this is supposed to hurt," Harry commented, following Snape's orders. He lay on the bed, tucking his feet under the headboard and stretching as far as his five-foot-six frame would go. Dean sat on the floor at the foot of the bed and waited for further instructions.

"Your apparent immunity to the leech's power, Mr. Winchester, is something of a blessing in this situation. As most magic performed on the victim of a power-leech tends to strengthen the leech, a person undergoing this procedure must be restrained physically. Previously, they were simply tied down, but this often caused bruising and friction burns – and in one memorable instance, some nastily broken bones – which, in turn, were unable to be cured by spell or potion, since the wounds were acquired while the victim's magic was essentially blocked from them by the presence of the leech. In this instance, you will be able to restrain Potter without risk of major injuries."

Dean nodded. He could do that. "I know you're going to be removing the leech, but just how does that work? I mean, with a normal leech, you just burn the little bloodsucker off and wash out the bite with some iodine or alcohol. What's different about this one?"

"A power-leech is a magical parasite, like I told you yesterday," Harry replied, his voice a little muffled by the mattress. _Merlin,_ was_ it only yesterday? It feels like it was a lifetime ago._ "Stress the 'magical'."

"Yeah, I caught that," Dean replied, looking up at Snape for more information.

"This particular parasite attaches itself not only to the body of its victim, but to their _anima_," Severus explained, transferring the crystalline violet potion he'd spent the morning making into a spray-bottle.

Dean cocked an eyebrow, "Their soul?"

Severus shook his head, "Not quite an accurate translation of the term. The _anima_ is more the essence of life, that which a living being has and a ghost does not. It is the energy that ties the spirit to the body. In a wizard, it also refers to an individual's magic."

"So, does that mean a wizard's life-energy is stronger than a regular person's?"

"It does," Severus screwed the top of the bottle into place and sat on the edge of Harry's bed. "On average, a wizard who has had no run-ins with major illness, traumatic injury, or debilitating curses or hexes can expect to live roughly a hundred-ninety to two-hundred-twenty years. Even those individuals who do encounter some misfortune in their lives tend to live as long as a hundred and sixty years."

Dean let out a low whistle, even as the thought, _I think I got gypped in the whole life-expectancy deal_, ran through his head. "Damn. You guys must be hella-hard to kill."

Harry chuckled and rotated his head to look at Dean. "You have _no_ idea."

"The potion I'll be using," Severus wrenched the topic back on-track, "does four things. Firstly, it creates a protective layer between the leech and myself, so I will be able to touch it without risking becoming its next victim. Secondly, it halts the leech's draining power. Thirdly, it weakens the leech's physical hold on the victim's body, and finally, it cleans and sterilizes the tools I'll be using as well as the wound left behind." Severus reached into one of his many pockets and withdrew a stiff bundle of leather. Untying the bundle, Snape unrolled it on the bed next to him. Dean saw that it contained numerous surgical tools – large pairs of tweezers, scissors, scalpels and the like.

Severus took a moment to spray all the tools with the potion before using the spray-bottle and coating the leech on Harry's back. Harry hissed a little, "Damn, that's fuckin' cold, Snape."

"It won't be for long, Potter," Snape replied as he reached for a pair of the tweezers and a scalpel. Dean swallowed hard and decided not to watch. _Really, I don't want to know._

* * *

_1:20 pm, October 11, 2007  
219 Martin Lane  
Leeville, Louisiana_

Bobby's rental pulled to a stop in front of the house in which the translated spell was written on a wall. Remus was still laughing in fits and bursts in the back seat. He'd started with a light chuckle about five minutes earlier, when a song had come on the radio, and before the song had finished, he'd been laughing hard enough that his eyes were watering. _Maybe I'm missing something, but I just don't see what's so funny about Warren Zevon's 'Werewolves of London'. It isn't even _that_ good of a piece of music._

Sam, though, had an idea. He didn't really want to listen to that little voice in the back of his head, but it would explain a few things. _Yeah, like how such a stick-thin guy can carry so much and why Dean doesn't like him at all. Then there's those scars on his face… They're the right distance apart, even if they do look like they've been there a while. If it's been long enough for those scars to fade like that, then he's got to have _some_ idea what he is – which explains the reaction to the song._ Sam followed Bobby up the short walk to the dilapidated porch; Remus was a little further behind the two of them. The front door was still unlocked from the day before.

"This place is a pit, ain't it?" Bobby commented as the three of them entered the run-down house.

"Yeah, I noticed. That room is upstairs, on the right," Sam said, wishing he'd brought along a shotgun – he had no desire to face the enraged spirit of Justine without one in hand, never mind the fact that she hadn't shown at all the previous day, and the fact that spirits tended not to show during the day. _Like that's a rule, though. They show when they damn well feel like it, time-of-day notwithstanding. _

Sam needn't have worried, though. Bobby opened the small bag he'd brought with him and handed Sam a revolver – Sam thought it was an old Smith & Wesson, but he wasn't sure. "Blessed iron," Bobby explained, removing another gun of similar make from the bag. "I'd've brought the shotgun, but it's a little large to hide in a backpack."

"Don't worry about it," Sam replied.

Remus, still smiling over the song – Sirius had told him that he needed to adopt it as his theme song when it had come out in 1978 – had his wand firmly in hand. Despite their readiness, the house remained relatively quiet. The only real sounds were their own footsteps and the normal creaking and groaning of a house on the verge of collapse.

Entering the room with the septagram on the floor and the spell on the walls, Sam retrieved his phone from his pocket and switched it over to camera mode. Bobby waited for Sam to take a picture of the rings on the floor before kneeling to examine the writing. Remus was reading the Latin wall, nodding to himself. Sam took pictures of the oriental writing, the runes, and the hieroglyphs, the flash on his camera sparking every few moments. "Smile, Remus." Sam, smiling just for show, aimed the camera at Lupin and snapped another picture when the man turned around.

Remus blinked several times in rapid succession. "Hey! Don't do that."

"It's just a picture," Sam shrugged, and glanced down at the screen on his phone. The photograph he'd just taken showed Remus; more importantly, it showed Remus' eyes. Reflective amber. _A werewolf shouldn't have that, should it? I know a shapeshifter's photograph reveals something _like_ this, but not quite…_ Sam suddenly wished he'd brought along Dean's Taurus with the silver-bullet clip.

"What is it?" Remus asked, his cheer from earlier melting into apprehension at the odd expression on Sam's face.

Sam hit a button on the phone, switching it back to camera mode from display. "Nothing. I'll get this last wall, then we should probably head back."

Remus nodded and stepped out of Sam's way. _I hope that damn picture wasn't at a straight angle. Knowing my luck, though… I should probably talk to him before we get back to the motel._

Bobby stood and nodded, "Yeah. I dunno what to make of this – it ain't quite like anything I've seen before. You got all the pictures we need, Sam?"

Sam snapped the last one of the wall of Latin, "I do now."

"Let's head out, then."

"Shall we stop and pick up supper for everyone on the way back," Remus asked, following Bobby and Sam down the stairs.

"Sounds good to me," Bobby replied, returning his gun to the backpack. He held his hand out for the one Sam was carrying, and Remus didn't miss how reluctantly Sam handed it back to the older Hunter.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Food sounds good." _Is there any food-related lore on shapeshifters or werewolves? I don't think so… Wait, wasn't there something about sugar? No – that was a trickster. Come on, brain, think._ Sam rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. _I need Dad's journal. This'll hold 'til then, I hope._

* * *

_3:15 pm, October 11, 2007  
Alphie's Luppertime Café  
Houma, Louisiana_

"And to go, we'll need a hamburger with extra onions and a side of fries," Sam looked over to Remus.

Remus continued the order, ordering food for both Severus and Harry. "And a large salad, lots of radishes, if you have them, and one of your supper specials."

The waiter nodded, scribbling it down on his pad. "So that's a cheeseburger and fries with a strawberry shake, the meatloaf platter with mashed and a Coke, and the grilled chicken club with a side-salad with Italian and coffee for here; a burger-extra-onions and fries, a hot beef sandwich, and a large dinner salad with extra radishes to go, right?" Three nods confirmed the order. "Did you want any dressing for the to-go salad?"

Remus shook his head, "No, thank you."

"Okay," the waiter said, tucking his wand into his pocket. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

After the acne-spotted teenager left, Bobby asked, "So, who's the rabbit?"

"Pardon?" Remus replied.

"The rabbit. I mean, I just can't picture either of those other two voluntarily eating veggies."

Remus chuckled, "Well, believe it or not, Severus only eviscerates cute furry creatures for the sake of his potions."

"He's a _vegetarian_?" Sam's tone was laced with disbelief.

Remus shrugged, "If it's any consolation, he wasn't one until about ten years ago… He was there, you see, the night Harry defeated Voldemort. I wasn't, but from what I was told, it was beyond nightmarish. Severus got burned pretty badly and was over a week recovering – which, when you consider that most first- and second-degree burns can be healed in a matter of moments with a salve, illustrates just how badly off he was."

Bobby, who had once served an unwilling tour of duty in Vietnam, understood, having seen the horrors of war up close and personal. "If you weren't there, where were you?"

Remus' expression took on a peculiar mix of anger, nausea, satisfaction, and relief in equal measures. "I had my own fight that night – I'd finally tracked down the man who had killed my father." _Or rather, the wolf who had done so. Wolfsbane or no wolfsbane, I don't think I was completely in control of myself that night… Not that I would change the outcome any, though I still swear that I could taste his blood for weeks afterwards._

"Is that when you got those scars?" Sam asked, seeing his opportunity and seizing it with both hands.

Remus ran a hand lightly over the long-faded scars on his face, "These? No. I was five when I got these scars."

"How?"

"I don't remember," Remus tried to evade the question.

"I don't believe you."

"Sam?" Bobby realized something was going on with the young Hunter, but wasn't sure what.

Both Sam and Remus ignored Bobby. Remus sighed a little, "All right – I do remember, but I don't want to talk about it, if you don't mind. It's not a pleasant memory."

In the brightly lit diner, Sam noticed that Remus' eyes were an odd shade of brown, bordering on dark gold. "I'm not asking for all the gory details, just a general idea."

The waiter reappeared with their drinks at that moment, saving Remus from having to reply. When he'd left, Remus pointedly asked Bobby, "So, what is your opinion on the septagram? The writing on the floor looked vaguely familiar, but I can't place where I might have seen it before."

Bobby sipped his Coke, "I thought it looked a little like Arabic, but only a little. May've been Sanskrit, though."

Resolving to return to his topic of interest once he'd had the chance to check some facts in the journal, Sam got out his phone and pulled up the photo of the floor. "It does seem sort-of familiar…" Sam trailed off and closed his eyes, trying to place where he might have seen the writing before. _I was reading something about the origins of Christianity… The only time I read that stuff was when Dad left me and Dean at Pastor Jim's._ "Huh…"

"Whacha got, Sam?" Bobby asked.

Sam opened his eyes and added some sugar to his coffee. "I don't know for sure, but I think it's Aramaic."

* * *

**A/N2:** Unlike 'Once is Happenstance', I didn't write this one out completely before beginning to post chapters, so I'm not entirely sure how long it will run. Tentatively, I'd say in the neighborhood of 12-15 chapters, but I have been wrong before – my HP fanfic 'Diet Rediwhip' springs to mind, that story was_ supposed_ to be a one-shot and it ended up stretching out to eleven chapters. 

Also, regarding the languages discussed, none of the characters know these languages, but can recognize how they look. And, yeah, according to the photographs and fonts I've looked at for Aramaic, Arabic, and Sanskrit the three alphabets have versions that look similar to one another, or at least enough so that someone who didn't know the language wouldn't be able to really tell which was which. I mean no disrespect whatsoever to anyone who does know these languages.

Review and let me know if this was up to snuff – I'm a little insecure about a couple of parts, but they're about as good as I could make them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This chapter's on the intense side, just to warn y'all, with little in the way of humor. I don't like having to deal with the heavy side of life without a humor reprieve, but it was needed to further the plot. So… Sorry for that. I also feel the odd need to apologize for this chapter being about a thousand words shorter than the average for the rest of the fic – it's just that I don't think any more could have been said in this chapter without cheapening it. I hope it's up to my usual standard.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_4:41 pm, October 11, 2007  
Room 217, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Severus finished the intricate process of removing the power-leech from Harry's back just before Remus, Bobby, and Sam returned. He was cleaning up his tools as Dean applied a bandage to the wound centered over Harry's spine – the inner bite mark of the leech was directly over his spine, roughly an inch in diameter, with a larger ring marking the edges of where the leech's claw-like protrusions had latched into Harry's skin – when the door to room 216 opened. "We got dinner," Sam said from the connecting doorway. "How'd it go?"

"As well as could be expected," Severus replied.

Sam glanced down at Harry, who was still shaking a little with the aftereffects of the procedure, and Dean. _I'm suddenly really glad that Bobby wanted to go take a look at the house_. Dean was wearing the expression Sam liked to call his 'I-will-NOT-puke-because-this-was-necessary' face.

Remus appeared in the doorway next to Sam, carrying a stack of Styrofoam containers. He waited until Dean had helped Harry to sit up before handing them their dinners. When he went to hand Severus his, Snape merely scowled at the plain white box. "It's salad," Remus explained.

Severus took the box and sat it to the side as he finished up putting all the potions ingredients and Harry's cauldron away. Without looking up from his task, he said, "If everyone would excuse us, I have something to discuss with Potter."

_I know that tone,_ Harry thought, looking up from his hot beef sandwich in alarm. "What?"

Remus met Snape's eyes and the two men seemed to hold an entire conversation in mere moments. "Come along, then," Remus said, nodding to himself. "Let's take a look at those pictures, see what we see," he spoke to the two Winchesters.

Sam knew there was something going on, but acquiesced to the suggestion. Dean's eyes narrowed a little, looking from Lupin to Snape and finally to Harry. Harry's expression was easy to read, _He knows what this is about, but doesn't want to admit it. Whatever it is, it's bad, too._ "Maybe this should wait until Harry's feeling better," he made the attempt to derail the discussion his friend obviously didn't want to have.

"No," Severus' tone was flat, yet insistent. "This has, by necessity, waited for far too long as it is."

Dean looked to Harry. Harry closed his eyes with a resigned sigh. "Just go, Dean. I'll be okay."

"You're sure?"

Harry cracked open his eyes, "Yeah. Snape may be a bastard, but I don't think he'd kill me – especially not after spending the entire day saving my arse."

Still not too sure about leaving Harry alone in the room with Snape – despite his personal respect for the man, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was a long and hurtful history between the two – Dean snagged his dinner box and retreated to the next room, closing the door behind him.

No longer interested in his sandwich, Harry sat the Styrofoam container to the side and looked up at Snape. "Well?"

"You know what this is about," was Snape's soft reply.

Harry shook his head, "No. Not fucking possible."

Severus quirked an eyebrow, "I assure you – it is not only _possible_, but a _fact_."

"But… How? There've not been any visions, nothing so much as a single fucking _twinge_, for Christsakes!"

Snape's reply was still in the same low, deadly serious, flat tone as before. He spoke as he removed his robes, revealing the long-sleeved waistcoat and black trousers he wore underneath, with a stiff black shirt collar peeking up from under the coat. "If you recall, Potter, those signs weakened with distance." He removed the waistcoat and unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirtsleeve. "As you have been running from your responsibilities on the other side of the world, it isn't surprising you've been unable to notice what has been going on." Severus pulled his left sleeve up to his elbow, revealing a twisted mass of horribly scarred skin. Harry winced a little at the sight, _I knew he'd gotten trapped by that fire-blast, but I didn't know it was so bad._ Snape rotated his arm, and Harry looked down at the floor before he could see what Snape had to show him, as though not seeing it would make it less true. He jumped a little when Snape grabbed his face and forcibly turned his head to look. "Open your eyes, Potter."

It was the tone that did it. Regardless of how much Harry and Snape had butted heads and argued, they had also fought together. Severus' tone of voice was still low, but it carried that battlefield-authority that had managed to save Harry's life on more than one occasion. Harry couldn't help himself – he looked.

The Dark Mark was easily identifiable among the burn scars. The brand looked newly placed; a bright red standing out on the backdrop of pasty white, shiny scar tissue. Harry flinched violently away from the sight, "No, Goddamnit, NO!" He managed to fall off the edge of the bed, but sprang to his feet. "I did my fucking job!" he shouted, "It isn't fucking POSSIBLE!"

Severus swiftly rebuttoned his cuff and stood, staring down at Potter, "Use your brain, Potter – if an Avada Kedavra couldn't kill him, what makes you think that a mere physical death _would_? It's not just the Mark, either – if he had truly died, then the majority of his spells should have died with him. Yet, Minerva still has to scrounge for a new Defense professor every year; the location of the Riddle Manor still won't show on any maps –"

"I get it! Just stop already!" Harry realized that he _had_ known that the Dark Lord couldn't have been defeated so easily – he'd just not wanted to admit it to himself. He had wanted so badly for it to be _over_ – for Ron's death and Ginny's cursing to have _meant_ something; for Tonks, Mad-Eye, and Dumbledore to not have died in vain; for all the death and chaos to have come to a conclusion – that he'd turned a blind eye to the evidence. Defeated, Harry slumped against the wall next to the bed. "How come no one told me sooner?"

Severus scoffed, "We tried, Potter – but you are not exactly the easiest person to locate."

Harry winced even as he let out a low chuckle. "I suppose so. I guess that spell I have for keeping fan-mail away works a little too well, doesn't it?" Snape didn't reply, he merely shrugged back into his waistcoat and robes. Scrubbing a hand across his face, Harry straightened up. "Accio wand," he said, holding his hand out to catch it.

He put on the t-shirt Dean had handed him earlier that day and set to work. It only took five minutes or so for Harry to have all his things packed back into their bags and boxes. He was in the middle of re-shrinking everything and putting it all into his saddlebag when the door to room 216 cracked open. Remus poked his head in, "You okay?"

Harry shook his head, not looking up. "No, but I suppose I'll have to be, won't I?" Harry stuffed his now-miniaturized duffel into the saddlebag and reached for his computer backpack. It was lighter than it should be. "Where's my laptop?"

"Sam was using it this morning," Remus supplied.

"He still using it?" Harry sighed and pulled on some socks and his motorcycle boots.

"I don't think so. Did you want me to get it for you?"

Harry shook his head and tucked his wallet into his back pocket and secured his wand-holster to his arm. "No, I need to talk to them anyway, so I'll get it."

Remus tried to smile reassuringly at Harry, "It'll get better."

Harry tucked his wand into the holster and met Lupin's gaze. "It _was_ better, Remus."

Not knowing how to reply to that, Remus' head disappeared back into Sam and Dean's room, the door clicking softly closed.

* * *

_5:00 pm, October 11, 2007  
Room 216, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Remus leaned his forehead against the closed door for a moment. "I'd save you from it if I could, Harry," he whispered, "but I can't."

Dean exchanged glances with Bobby and Sam. Sam shrugged, slowly shaking his head. "No clue," he mouthed.

Remus pushed himself away from the door and sighed. He returned to his seat across the table from Bobby and buried his head in his hands. Mere moments after he'd sat down, Harry opened the connecting door, wearing his jacket, with his saddlebag slung over one shoulder, his helmet tucked under his other arm, and his laptop backpack dangling from a loose grasp. Sam smiled at him, "Going somewhere?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah. I have something I need to do…"

"Here," Sam handed him the sleek silver computer that had a lightning bolt engraved on its titanium case. "What's this about?"

Snape seemed to melt out of the shadows just beyond the open door. "Suffice it to say that Potter has some responsibilities he is long overdue in attending."

"Stuff it, Snape," Harry retorted, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the man. "I hate to bail in the middle of a Hunt, but this is something I really need to do."

"What is it?" Dean asked around the last of his French fries. Swallowing, he continued, "Maybe we can help."

Harry shook his head, "I don't think so, Dean."

Bobby observed all the little byplays of glances between Dean and Sam, Harry and Remus, Remus and Snape; he saw that though neither Harry nor Lupin seemed to like Snape, they obviously had no problems working with the man; he further saw how Sam's expression was bordering on his pleading 'don't-deny-me-what-I-think-I-need' puppy look. _I think I've had about as much of this as I can handle._ Bobby stood, kicked his chair out of the way, and had to consciously stop himself from laughing at the four startled pairs of eyes that turned his way – Snape was inscrutable. "Now that I've got your attention, boys," all five of them visibly bristled, and Bobby continued, electing not to correct his speech, "I've had about as much of this self-sacrificing bull as I can tolerate. You children need to come clean with each other, because it's obvious you're _all_ hiding something, and in this business, keeping secrets has a tendency to come back and bite you in the ass, if they don't flat-out kill you.

"Now, I ain't been nothin' but up-front with you all since I got here. I'm a Hunter looking into a lead that cropped up during an exorcism. When I got here, all I had was the name of Leeville, Louisiana and a hunch that somethin' big was about to go down. The marks in the house made me sure of it." Bobby's eyes fell on Sam. "Sam, you said Harry here had some sort of connection to the place?"

Sam shrugged, "It's weak – more of a coincidence than an actual connection. Hell, _I've_ got more of a connection to it, if you're right about it being demonic."

"Bullshit. You an' I both know there ain't no coincidences in this business," Bobby managed to reply just before Harry asked, "What do you mean, Sam?"

Dean's temper spiked and he jumped in before Sam could answer. "Damnit, Sammy. Give it a fucking rest! You're not evil – and we still don't know for a fact that what the demon showed you was true!"

"Dean, shut up. You weren't there, you don't know. Besides, how else do you explain–" Sam stopped suddenly and changed what he was going to say, "everything?"

Dean barely stopped himself from reaching over to his brother and shaking the daylights out of him. "Demons _lie_, Sam. That's how I explain it!"

"They tell the truth, too, Dean. They tell the truth when it suits their purpose – or did you forget that?"

Bobby whistled shrilly to halt the argument before it could get completely out of hand. "This is what I was talkin' about, boys! Maybe it's 'cause you're all too close to it, but you three," he pointed to Dean, Sam, and Harry, "seem to be connected to what's going on here! Now, you're gonna start talkin' or I'm gonna blast all three of you full of rock salt!" Remus snickered at the threat, and Bobby whirled around to glare at the man. "Don't think you're getting off easy – you and that Snape fellow are gonna talk, too, 'cause you're obviously as in the thick of this as Harry is, an' I don't make _empty_ threats."

When silence greeted the end of Bobby's rant, he glared at Sam. Sam winced and cleared his throat. "Um… Okay…"

When he didn't continue, Bobby said, "You got 'til three, Samuel Winchester, and then I get my shotgun. One… Two… Thr–"

Sam knew Bobby was serious and so let it all out in a rush, "WhenIwasababyIwasforcedtodrinkdemonbloodandIthinkitdidsomethingtome."

Remus shook his head a little, "Pardon?"

Sam grimaced, took a breath, and tried again. "When I was a baby, I was forced to drink demon blood and I think it did something to me."

The admission snagged Snape's attention and he asked, "Was the blood from a corporeal manifestation of an actual demon, or was it simply from someone possessed?"

Sam looked up at Snape, an incredulous expression on his face. "Um… The first one. Why?"

"Demon blood is akin to re'em blood – it's a potions ingredient which has certain properties," Severus' tone immediately revealed his past as a professor. "Some, though not all, potions ingredients can be ingested directly for particular results. For example, re'em blood can be ingested to impart a permanent boost to one's physical strength and dragon dust is often used as a recreational hallucinogen." Snape's expression said quite clearly what he thought of the waste of valuable ingredients. "Demon blood is most often used to enhance weak magical properties of other potions ingredients, particularly when making a customized potion for someone who has allergies to stronger ingredients. If ingested directly, it would serve to strengthen whatever latent magical abilities the drinker possessed – a somewhat common practice for dealing with squibs among the pureblood families of Europe until the Dark Arts Act was passed in 1508."

"Hold up, sir," Dean interrupted. "What do you mean 'latent magical abilities'?"

"Exactly what I said. Blood from a corporeal demon forces whatever magical abilities a person possesses from latency. If it is a child who had consumed the blood, these abilities don't surface until later in life, usually as soon as physical maturity has been completed."

Dean tossed his empty dinner box in the trash can and sat up straighter on the edge of his bed. "So Sam already had the potential for what he does, but the blood just made it a certainty?"

"Yes," Snape said simply.

"What can you do?" Harry asked Sam.

"I sorta get these… visions," Sam admitted, "about things that are connected to the demon that killed our mom."

"Well, that makes sense," Remus volunteered. Sam and Dean both looked over to the older man, obviously demanding more information. "If one of your Talents," the word was obviously capitalized in tone, "is that of a Seer, then you would See things related to what lay most heavily on your mind."

"So, what are you saying here?" Dean asked. "That Sam's like Harry?"

Remus shook his head, "No, not at all. If he were, I'm sure he would have received an invitation from one of the American schools of magic. No, the mind-magics, what muggles refer to as 'psychic gifts', are separate from true magic. A person can have one or the other, or both, or neither."

"What are the mind-magics? Things like telepathy and mind-reading?"

Remus nodded, "Yes. Telepathy, Seering, Occlumency/Legilimency, and Personal Healing are the four main mind-magic categories; all permutations of psychic abilities fall under one of those headings."

"Personal Healing?" Sam and Dean asked simultaneously, both thinking of the Winchester trait to heal rapidly and how all but the most severe injuries seemed to heal without a scar, particularly in the older brother.

"The most subtle of the psychic Talents, Personal Healing is probably also the most common of all of them. If someone has this gift, they don't bruise or get ill easily and heal completely in a fraction of the time it normally takes. If someone realizes they have this talent and works to focus it, then healing their own wounds would be nearly instantaneous – granted, it would expend a large amount of energy and the person would be ravenous for a few days afterwards, but almost any injury would be taken care of in a matter of moments."

Sam couldn't help himself, he dissolved into chuckles. _I suppose this explains why Dean can eat so much right after a Hunt and not develop a potbelly to show for it._ "I guess I'm not the only freak in the family after all," he managed to get out.

Dean grinned, "Dude, I never claimed to be normal."

"As interesting as this is," Bobby said, still standing next to his overturned chair, "it's your turn, Dean."

Dean's grin faltered. "Um… I'll pass. It's not like it has anything to do with what's going on down in Leeville, or why Harry's apparently ready to take off."

"We don't know that, Dean. Not for sure. Besides, doesn't your buddy have a right to know about it? If you won't tell him, then _I_ will."

"You would, too, wouldn't you?" Dean muttered, suddenly very interested in his hands. Without looking up from them, he started talking, his voice as expressionless as his face. "I made a deal with a crossroads demon; I got what I needed and a year."

"What did you _think_ you needed?" Severus asked, fully expecting to hear a long drawn-out explanation detailing some sort of mugglish want for money or something similar, and thinking, _That explains the precision of his life-reading, and why the leech wouldn't transfer to him_. So he was somewhat surprised when Dean merely jerked his thumb at his brother.

"I thought that crossroads demons' standard deal was ten years," Remus mentioned.

Dean looked up at the tall man in the patched trousers and slightly-threadbare sweater. "Not if you've managed to piss it off before, and _especially_ not if you've made it your life's work to send evil back to Hell."

Severus could easily read the guilt in the younger Winchester's expression and the obstinate stubbornness in the elder's. Lightly rubbing his temple with his right hand he suddenly understood what Dean had done. "Merlin save me from foolish Gryffindors," he muttered. To Dean, he continued in a slightly louder tone of voice, "So, because you couldn't stand the thought of being alone, you sold yourself."

Dean's head whipped around and glared at Severus. "I'd've dealt with the Devil himself if it meant Sammy would be okay."

_Correction,_ Severus thought. _Merlin save me from foolish Hufflepuffs._ He could recognize where Dean was coming from, though. He'd been there and knew what it felt like to lose someone held so dear. If he had been a bit more clear-headed at the time, he might have done the same thing. As it was, however, it was far too late for even a demon deal to correct.

"You shouldn't have," Sam said, focused on his brother.

Dean's glare turned on his brother, "Don't start that again, Sam – I mean it." Looking past Sam to Harry, he decided to stop the argument before it could go any further. "So, what's with you up and leaving in the middle of a Hunt?"

"Do you remember the story I told you back when we first met?" Harry asked, running a hand through his hair.

Dean nodded, "Yeah."

"Seems I didn't fix the problem like I thought."

"What?" Dean blinked, "Don't tell me – vengeful spirit?"

Harry grimaced, "Not exactly, but close enough, I suppose."

"And you have to go back and deal with it," Dean stated.

Harry nodded, "I'm the only one who can. And I'd rather like to get it done before he manages to get himself another body. He'd done so before, and I imagine it wouldn't be an issue to do so again."

"How do you know that it's the same guy?" Sam asked.

Harry jerked his head in Snape's direction. "Snape told me."

"And how does he know?" Sam insisted.

"Because he's got the Dark Mark," Harry replied. "He spies for the Light. Had I managed to do things properly the first time around, the morsmordre would have dissipated, but it remains – proof that the bastard is still out there."

"If he's still out there, do you think he's got anything to do with the house in Leeville?" Sam asked, "Because you said that it was connected to a family you knew supported him."

Remus and Snape both peered at Harry. Harry smirked a little, "Um, yeah. The Greengrass family from Devon. Michael was the husband of one of the victims."

Severus let out a breath, drawing everyone's attention to him. "I would imagine, Potter, that had you not been interrupted by the appearance of the leech, you would have discovered the fact of the Dark Lord's continued existence on your own."

"If you know something, Snape, spit it out. Quit fucking with me and trying to make me angry," Harry glared at him.

"I don't _try_ to make you angry," Snape dryly replied before shaking his head a little. "Daphne Greengrass was never Marked, though she supported the Dark Lord. I suspect, but have no proof, that she has been housing the Dark Lord's spirit. I do know that she used the killing curse on her parents after finding out that they were leaving the estate to her brother in the event of their deaths."

Sam put several pieces of the puzzle together, "So, the family fortune went to her brother, and would have gone on to his wife if he died before she did. From there, it would have made its way to her family if she died without having children. So Daphne took care of the problem by doing whatever spell she did in the house to ensure that her sister-in-law's family would never get hold of the money. She then had the spirit kill her brother and his wife, so the family estate would revert back to her. Right?"

_And I believe we have a Ravenclaw_, Severus thought. He nodded, "And from there, it would go to fund the Death Eaters."

"Still doesn't explain why I heard about it from a demon," Bobby pointed out.

Sam, who had thought that he'd figured it all out, deflated a little. Remus cleared his throat. "I have a thought –"

"Don't hurt yourself, Lupin," Snape snarked.

Dean grinned, and Lupin rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha-bloody-ha, Severus. No, I mean – demons thrive on the power and darkness housed in the spirits of people who have done truly evil things in their lives, right?"

Bobby nodded, "That's what all the books say."

"So, how frustrated would they be if they were unable to collect Voldemort's soul?"

Bobby snickered a little, "You're saying that the demon in Lincoln directed me down this way just to help track this Voldemort-sucker down?"

"It's not outside the realm of possibility. It's likely they knew that the happenings in Leeville would draw the attention of a Hunter, and who better to track down an evil soul than someone like you?"

"Should I contact the _Quibbler_? Lupin actually managed to make sense," Severus muttered. Harry reached over and smacked the taller man's shoulder. Glaring at Harry, Severus said, "Do that again, Potter, and I'll rip your arm from its socket."

"While we're all being so brutally honest," Dean said, quirking an eyebrow at Remus, "what's your dirty little secret?"

Remus laughed out loud. "It's really not much of a secret, Mr. Winchester, not when the whole of wizarding Britain – and most of the rest of the wizarding world – knows. Before I tell you, though, you have to promise me something."

"What?"

"You'll not go for that gun you've got stashed in the back of your waistband."

Confused, Dean shrugged, "Sure."

"I'm a werewolf."

Dean looked at the man and realized it wasn't a surprise. On one level or another, Dean had _known_ this – it was why he hadn't liked the guy. _I wonder if that's got something to do with those mind-magic things he was talking about earlier. Is 'creature detection' one of those lesser distinctions that he mentioned?_ Instead of going for the Taurus with its full clip of silver bullets, Dean merely asked, "So… What do you do, lock yourself in on the full moon?"

Sam could only blink at his brother, marveling once again at Dean's ability to take the weirdest shit totally in stride.

"I used to," Remus admitted. "But lately, I haven't had to. That pet project I mentioned helping Severus with is a potion called Wolfsbane. We're hoping to modify it so that I not only keep my mind, but my own body as well. It isn't a cure, but it does halt some of the nasty side-effects."

Sam's mind quickly ran to thoughts of Madison, the werewolf he and Dean had hoped to cure in San Francisco. "Is there a cure?"

Remus shook his head, "No. Not that I've been able to locate, and I've been looking for the last thirty-six years. The rumor that killing the wolf responsible for transmitting the disease is quite false."

"We know," Sam stated, his tone rather flat.

Dean knew precisely what his brother was thinking. "Does that potion work on everyone, or is it something that was tailored to you?"

"The potion only works on wizarding werewolves – lycanthropy affects muggles differently," Remus explained. "What Severus is doing is taking the original potion and working to perfect it; I'm just a guinea pig."

"What's the difference in a wizard-werewolf and a regular werewolf?" Bobby asked, intrigued.

"Well, since a wizard has magic, the virus responsible for the disease can affect drastic physical changes. A wizarding werewolf will actually assume a wolf shape during the full moon. From my research, a muggle afflicted with the disease will have the teeth, senses, claws, and strength of a wolf, but will remain mostly human in appearance. Without the presence of magic for the virus to focus on, a muggle werewolf will also succumb to the wolf mentality more easily during times of stress, rather than solely due to the lunar cycle."

The guilt that had tried to surface at the mention of the potion dissipated as Sam realized that he'd done really the only thing he could in regards to Madison. Sam met Dean's concerned gaze and smiled slightly. Dean relaxed a little, knowing that his brother wasn't going to beat himself up over it again. "Well," Dean said, "aside from adding that to the Journal, I don't see how it's of much use to us right now. Where do we go next? Personally, I think we should see about getting that spirit out of the house in Leeville before it kills someone else and then we can see about helping Harry with his problem."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Bobby said, smiling at the older Winchester.

The six men spent the next four hours going over various plans for how to break the spell holding the spirit to the house – two of those hours were used solely to talk Dean out of burning the place to the ground. When they finally agreed on a plan of action, Dean loaned Harry his phone long enough for the younger Hunter to call Leanne and let her know he was fine. During that time, Remus transfigured the king-sized bed in room 217 into two twins. When everyone went to bed that night, Remus and Harry shared Harry's room, the Winchesters had their room, and Snape took the second bed in Bobby's room. Bobby's last thought before drifting off was, _I hope this one don't snore like the other one did._

* * *

**A/N2:** Yeah, I said this runs AU after Harry's fifth year, but I'm keeping the backstory that surfaced in HBP and DH. I figure that since those things happened before the timeline of the fifth book, they should be kept.

To everyone who has reviewed, I say THANK YOU! Your continued support of the fic is what keeps me writing even when I don't really feel like it. And to those of you who have said that I've done a good job in making this crossover as plausible as possible, I say only that I try – I make it believable to me, and it just comes through the page that way. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed and to everyone who simply reads – I _do_ keep tabs on my hit-counter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and I hope it comes through clearly. The humor in the first part is the kind I was raised with – which goes to illustrate just how nuts I really am, I suppose. I hope y'all enjoy it, too.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_8:13 am, October 12, 2007  
Room 215, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

"Sure you don't want to stick around, sir?" Dean asked, leaning on the transfigured doorframe.

Severus shook his head and checked his pockets one last time to make sure he'd not forgotten anything. "No. I have been gone too long as it stands – if I were to linger, my absence would be noticed. Unlike _some_ people, I actually have to work for a living."

Dean opted not to respond to the jibe, if, in fact, it had even been aimed at him. "It was good to meet you."

Severus shot Dean a cockeyed glance, but didn't respond to the pleasantry. "Potter!"

"What?" Harry's voice called back from room 217. Snape waited a moment, and when Harry didn't show, called his name again. A moment later, an exasperated Harry stood next to Dean in the doorway.

"I will inform Minerva you will contact her within the week, Potter," Snape said, staring down at Harry.

Harry nodded, "Yeah. Sure." He sighed a little, "You know, I'd say thanks and all, but I remember that time in '96 when you told me if I tried thanking you again, you'd eviscerate me and sell my pickled remains to Slug & Jiggers."

"The threat still stands, Potter." Severus tapped one of the buttons on his waistcoat with his wand, "Portus."

"See you later, Snape."

"Indeed," he replied before the portkey activated and he winked out of existence.

"And that was…?" Dean asked, glancing down at Harry.

"A portkey."

"Which is…?"

"Another method of magical travel. Most wizards can only apparate about two hundred miles or so. Portkeys can be used to travel any distance."

"Oh."

"Where'd Bobby go?" Harry asked, noticing for the first time that the older Hunter wasn't in any of the three rooms.

"He offered to do a breakfast run, said he'd be back by eight-thirty."

"Hey, Dean! Harry!" Sam called from the table in his and Dean's room where he and Remus were using the computers to finish up some research. "I found where Justine was buried."

"Cool," Dean wandered over to his brother. "Where?"

"Saint Andrews Cemetery, about a half-mile outside Leeville," Sam said, frowning a little.

Dean sighed at Sam's expression, "What's the catch?"

Sam clicked a tab on the internet browser, "It's shown here."

"What am I looking at, Sam?" Dean peered down at the screen. The website was one of those that gave detailed maps, but Sam had the display settings changed to show satellite photographs of the Leeville area.

Sam enlarged the photograph. "According to the information, _this_," he tapped a somewhat grainy picture showing a muddy flat of water, "is Saint Andrews Cemetery. During Hurricane Katrina, the levees holding back the swamp broke and apparently a cemetery isn't all that high on the National Guard's to-repair list."

"Kinda puts a damper on the whole salt-and-burn plan, doesn't it?" Dean smirked.

Remus snorted at the blatant pun, "May it not be said that you've got a dry sense of humor."

Sam groaned. "Quit it, both of you, before I break out the duct tape."

"Don't you mean 'duck' tape?" Harry asked, an innocent expression on his face.

Sam refrained, barely, from banging his head against the table, settling for glaring the other three. "Come on, Sam, don't be such a wet blanket," Dean said.

"Yeah, Sam, don't leave us high and dry here," Harry said, taking a seat on Dean's bed. "You can dive right in at any time."

Sam groaned and succumbed to the urge to hit his head repeatedly on the table top. _I'm gonna kill them. Really, I am._ The door to the balcony opened and Bobby let himself in, a large take-out bag in one hand. He looked from Sam to the other three who were laughing and said, "Did I miss something?"

"They're trying to kill me," Sam replied, looking up. "Death by puns."

Ignoring Sam, Dean took the bag of food from Bobby. "Whacha get?" he asked, digging through the cartons of take-out.

"Pancakes and bacon all around," Bobby replied, snagging the top carton, which was marked with a big 'B', "except for that one."

"Oh? What did you get?" Remus asked, recognizing the tell-tale signs of someone waiting for a good joke.

"Sausage and some hard-boiled eggs," Bobby fought down a grin. "After all, a hard-boiled egg for breakfast is hard to beat."

Sam let out a sound that was half-sob, half-chuckle and hit his head one last time on the table. "Why me?" Dean opened his mouth to reply, and Sam glared at him. "Not one word, Dean."

* * *

_12:32 pm, October 12, 2007  
Saint Andrews Cemetery  
Leeville, Louisiana_

The boat that Dean had rented was a small pontoon platform that had hardly enough room on it for the four Hunters and Remus. Bobby took the controls that stuck up in a square pillar near the rear of the platform while Sam directed him to the most likely location for Justine's crypt, often referring to a computer print-out map of the cemetery plots. Sam was somewhat amused that both Harry and Remus were sitting back-to-back in the exact center of the boat, as far from the edges as possible. Dean was taking measurements of the water's depth with a length of rope attached to a weight.

"Okay, it should be somewhere around here," Sam said, folding the map and handing it to Harry.

"It's about twelve feet deep." Dean coiled up the wet rope and handed it to Bobby, who hung it on a hook attached to the control pillar. "Water's a little on the chilly side, too."

"On the upside, though," Sam pointed out, "there's enough salt water present that alligators shouldn't be a problem."

Dean grinned, "'Never insult an alligator until after you've crossed the river.'"

"But we're not crossing a river, now are we?" Sam retorted.

Dean shrugged, "Whatever. Same thing goes for diving in a swamp for a dead bitch's bones."

"Whenever you're ready," Remus cut into the conversation, eyeing the surrounding water with obvious unease.

Dean and Sam stripped out of their shoes, socks, jackets, and, in Dean's case, his long-sleeved button-up, before taking places in front of Harry and Remus. Harry cast a couple of warming charms on their clothes while Remus hit them both with a bubble-head charm. The warming charms tickled Sam's skin a little, and the silvery bubble that formed around his mouth and nose was slightly distracting. "You're sure you didn't want to come with us?" he asked Harry.

Harry shook his head, "No, mate. I'm really not much of a swimmer." He handed the cemetery map back to Sam, "Here. It should be waterproof now."

"Thanks." The platform rocked a little as first Dean and then Sam jumped into the muddy water that hid the cemetery. The chill of the water was unpleasant, but not enough to be shockingly cold. The Winchesters treaded water next to the boat while Bobby handed them a couple of waterproof flashlights. Dean was also handed a crowbar, and Sam received a mesh bag. "You sure about the alligators, Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice unhindered by the bubble charm.

"Pretty sure," Sam said.

"Dude, you better be pretty freakin' sure."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Yeah, Dean. Would I be doing this if I wasn't?"

"Point," Dean conceded. "Shall we?"

"After you." Sam waited until Dean had submerged himself under the water. "How long do these things last?" he asked, gesturing to the bubble.

"Until they're dispelled," Remus answered.

Sam had to fight against the urge to hold his breath as he dove under the muddy water. "Hey, Dean? Can you hear me?"

"This is a trip, ain't it?" Dean's voice sounded a little tinny and Sam couldn't tell what direction it was coming from.

"Yeah," Sam replied, peering through the murky water. "Where are you?"

"I dove straight to the bottom. Almost cracked my head on one of the crypts, so you'll wanna be careful."

Sam swam down to the bottom, clicking on the flashlight about eight feet below the surface. "Do you feel as weird as me being able to breathe without a bunch of bubbles?"

"When did you go scuba-diving?"

"The summer after my freshman year – eight of us pooled our cash and we spent three weeks in Hawaii. Learned to surf, too."

"Hawaii?"

"Yeah. We stayed with Jessica's roommate's family in Honolulu."

"Damn, Sammy… How come I'm just hearing about this now?"

_Again with the 'Sammy'. Wish _he_ had an annoyingly cute nickname._ "It never came up before now." Sam finally spotted the dim light from Dean's flashlight. Swimming up beside him, Sam checked the nearest crypt for a name. "Where are we?"

"Marianna LeNoir, 1853 to 1911. It's the right area, at least," Dean supplied.

Sam checked the name on the map. "Okay, so Justine should be two rows north and five crypts west of here."

Even with the limited visibility it didn't take long to find the correct crypt. Dean dug his feet into the mud surrounding the base of the crypt and placed the crowbar at the joint where the capstone met the walls of the simple, low crypt. "I always wondered –"

Sam interrupted, "It's because the water table's so high – standard graves aren't possible, so everyone's buried in crypts."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I know _that_, geek-boy. No, I was just wondering why this wasn't more common. It's a hell of a lot faster to pry open a crypt than it is to dig up a grave."

Sam shrugged, "Don't know the answer to that one." He swam over to stand next to Dean. "You know… Most people would have said that they were more aesthetic or something, not that digging _up_ a grave was harder."

"Most people don't have our life, Sam."

"Point," Sam conceded. Working together, they pried the capstone off the crypt, stirring up a localized storm of mud and half-rotted leaves. Once the debris settled, Dean trained his flashlight beam into the crypt.

"What the…" Sam stared into the open crypt, his own flashlight beam joining Dean's.

The crypt held the remains of an old pine-board coffin, but no sign of Justine Espoir's bones. "Well, this is just fantastic. I mean, what the hell?"

"Obviously, we're not the first ones here."

"My guess would be that Daphne person Harry knew," Sam moved to look a little closer at the waterlogged contents of the crypt, checking to see if there was any clue as to what had happened to the body that should have been housed within.

Dean nodded in agreement and moved around to the other side of the crypt, stepping over the capstone as he did so. Something caught his eye on the overturned stone. "Hey, Sam, come take a look at this."

Sam pulled his feet from the mud and swam over the crypt. "What is it?"

"Look," Dean nodded towards a carving on the exposed underside of the capstone.

"Dude… Isn't that from the _Necronomicon_?" _I'm sure it is… But which demon is it tied to? _The symbol consisted of a short line curving outwards to the right, rather like a sideways smile, next to a longer line that curved at a lesser degree to the left and capped with a small circle, with a second circle just to the right and a little lower than the first circle.

Dean shrugged, "I don't know, but it certainly looks like something from that book."

Sam looked up at his brother, "You've read it?"

"No need to sound so surprised – I _do_ know how to read, you know."

"It's not that I'm surprised," Sam stopped himself. "Okay, so maybe it is. But just a little," he held his hand up, his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

"Whatever," Dean gestured towards the symbol on the crypt lid. "So which demon is it?"

Sam shook his head, "I don't know for sure."

"Seems easy enough to remember. We'll look it up." Sam nodded and chuckled as a thought struck him. Dean aimed his flashlight at Sam. "What?"

"Do you have the feeling that this Daphne girl took 'come Hell or high water' a little too literally?"

Dean laughed. "Good one, Sam. Let's head up."

* * *

_1:14 pm, October 12, 2007  
Sharky's  
Golden Meadow, Louisiana_

"What'll it be, gentlemen?" The bartender was a pretty woman in her late twenties with golden blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Dean would have been tempted to flirt with her, had he not noticed the wedding band on her left hand. She asked her question just as they'd entered the bar. The only other person present was an elderly man who was nursing a mug of beer and watching CNN on the muted television.

"Do you have Guinness?" Remus asked.

"You betcha," the woman replied.

"Bud for me," Bobby supplied.

"Me, too," Dean echoed.

"Just a can of Pepsi, please," Sam said.

"And for you?" the woman looked to Harry.

"A bottle of Wild Turkey 101, if you have it. Jim Beam if you don't."

"Sold the last bottle of the 101 night before last, and the truck ain't come yet. Got JB Black, if that'll do ya?" the woman smiled at Harry.

Harry nodded, "That'll do, love."

The woman collected their drinks and handed them over. "Three bucks for the Guinness, two-fifty each for the beers, fifty flat for the bourbon, and no charge for the soda." At Sam's questioning look, she pointed to a sign above the bar. It read 'Free soda, water, or virgin mixed for all designated drivers – Drink Responsibly!' Harry handed over three twenties and waived off the change. "Give a holler if ya need anythin' else. I'm Deb, by the way."

"Will do," Harry replied with a smile.

The five men took their drinks and located a corner table. "Show me that symbol you saw on the crypt," Bobby said, taking a sip of his beer.

Sam retrieved his memo book and a pen from his pocket and quickly sketched out the sigil. "I know it's from the _Necronomicon_, but I don't remember which demon it belongs to." He handed the notebook to Bobby. Remus craned his neck to see it.

"It's… Zahgurim, I think," Remus said.

Bobby nodded, "It is. Nasty bastard. If I recall correctly, the book says, 'Slays slowly, after a most unnatural fashion'."

Harry poured a glass of his bourbon and let out a little huff of air. "I'll say. It doesn't get more _unnatural_ than a magically-engineered parasite."

"I find it fascinating, really," Remus said with a small smile.

"What?" Dean looked over at the werewolf.

"I remember having Daphne Greengrass in class. She was a remarkably average student, possessing neither the innate grasp of magic Harry has, nor the aptitude for research of this magnitude. Either she changed drastically in the years after I knew her, or she hid her true self better than the rest of her house combined." Remus shook his head a little, sipped his drink, and continued. "I mean, so far we have found elements of cord magic, elemental links, astrological connections, necromancy, and now, demonology. The girl I knew wouldn't have been capable of combining that many disparate branches of magic into what seems to be a single spell."

Harry shook his head, "I don't know if she changed any, but she was always in the library. She and Hermione once had a fight about who got the desk under the window by the Restricted Section. Besides, even if she didn't do it personally, Snape did say he believes she's hiding/housing/hosting The-Prick-Who-Won't-Fucking-Die."

Remus snorted Guinness foam out his nose. "Merlin, Harry! Give me a little warning next time!" He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face. "That inconsessufamens is still going, isn't it?"

"Strong as ever," Harry agreed with false cheer before draining his glass and pouring another. "It's a bloody bitch, particularly with you around again and using his name all the time," he mock-glared at Remus as he retrieved his cigarette case from his jacket pocket.

"Since when do you smoke?" Remus asked, reaching across the table to snag the small silver case.

"Since I got to the US," Harry snapped, yanking the case out of Remus' grasp. "And if you touch my fags again, I'll show you _exactly_ what Snape taught me."

"I'll consider myself warned," Remus replied good-naturedly.

"About the bones, though," Harry said, lighting a cigarette, "it's entirely possible she transfigured them into something else. It's what I'd do if I were her."

"That's changing one thing into another, right?" Dean verified.

Harry nodded, "Yeah."

"Would that work to keep the spirit here, though?"

"I don't see why not," Remus shrugged. "It's not as though a transfiguration destroys the object or objects changed."

"I hope that ain't the case," Bobby said. "'Cause if it is, then how the Hell're we supposed to find something if we don't even know what we're looking for?"

Dean shook his head, "Look, I hate to be repetitive, but if all these pieces are tied together by that spell in the house, I don't see why we don't just torch the place."

"Burning it down won't break the spell, Dean," Harry explained. "There are just too many branches of magic tied together here for a simple salt-and-burn to be effective. We need to unravel at least part of the spell first."

"The septagram itself would attract power, and likely serves to bind the whole thing together," Remus pointed out. "When you were in the house previously, did you run an analytical scan of the markings?"

Harry shook his head and took a drag of his cigarette. "There wasn't time. We'd just located the writing. I translated the Latin and then the leech hit. Didn't you run a scan when you were there?"

Remus sighed, "No. I thought you would have already done so."

While the others discussed the situation, Sam was staring at his soda can and thinking. Bits and pieces of the conversation filtered in, but not much made an impact on his thoughts. _Maybe Dean has a point and we _should_ just torch the house. It'd certainly keep people from going in and running up against the ghost. But there's no guarantee that destroying the house would have any affect on the spirit – it may just lead to releasing it to roam freely. The other option right now, unless Harry and Remus can find Justine's bones, would be to appeal to another demon from the _Necronomicon_. The majority of the demons in that book aren't really demons, after all. A better translation would be lesser deities. Isn't there one in there that specializes in finding lost treasure? Yeah, there is._ Sam looked up and interrupted the conversation. "I have an idea."

"Oh?" Harry replied.

Sam nodded, "Yeah. Do you have a copy of the _Necronomicon _with you?"

Harry shook his head, "No."

"How about you, Bobby?"

"Didn't think I'd need it, so I didn't bring it."

Sam shrugged a little, "No problem, we'll pick one up at a Barnes and Noble."

"Sam?" Dean had an odd look on his face.

"What?" Sam's tone was slightly defensive. "If you read the whole book, Dean, you'd know that most of the 'demons' it details aren't really demonic, the term is just a quirk of the translation. There's one in there that helps to find lost things."

Bobby got a thoughtful look on his face, "There is, ain't there… Z-something."

Remus chuckled, "The name you're looking for is 'Ziku'. I'm somewhat familiar with that particular being, and I agree with Sam; it couldn't hurt to appeal to Ziku for a little assistance in finding Miss Espoir's bones."

"Do you know what we'd need to call on this Ziku?" Bobby asked.

Remus nodded, "Yeah. I haven't done so in a long time, but I'm sure I remember how."

"In that case," Dean said, reaching for a laminated menu from where it was wedged between the napkin holder and the wall, "let's get lunch."

* * *

_4:10 pm, October 12, 2007  
219 Martin Lane  
Leeville, Louisiana_

After the five men worked their way through some of southern Louisiana's best – not to mention cheapest – jambalaya, they had stopped at a small, old-school, general store. It had a little of everything, and the only reason it was still in business in this day and age of Wal-Mart and Dollar General was because there was precious little land in the Louisiana bayou suitable for building. The owner, a man more wrinkled than a California raisin, also looked to be the 'you'll-have-my-land-over-my-cold-dead-corpse' brand of stubborn and hadn't batted an eye at the odd collection of things Remus selected. He'd only mentioned that he 'don't take plastic – it's cash or nothin' and bagged up the supplies.

From the general store, they went directly to the house in Leeville. Bobby, Remus, and Harry crammed in the back seat of the Impala, the bags from the store stowed in the trunk, and the tape deck working its way through side two of the Grateful Dead's _American Beauty_ album. After pulling to a stop in front of the now-too-familiar house, they gathered their things and headed inside. Bobby, Dean, and Sam took up guard positions with shotguns around the entry hall, where Remus indicated he would set up.

Following Remus' instructions, Harry set to helping set up. They were almost done when there was an authoritative knock on the door. Handing a white taper candle to Remus, he brushed his hands off on his jeans. "I've got this one, mates."

Harry opened the door, wearing a pleasantly neutral expression. "Afternoon, officer."

The policeman on the rickety porch was a couple of inches taller than Harry and probably close to the same age. He narrowed his eyes at Harry and tried to peer past him to see into the darkened hallway. "Afternoon, sir. I got a call from some of the folks in the area about a bunch of trespassers on the property."

"I wouldn't say we're trespassing, officer," Harry replied, digging into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I didn't catch your name."

"Officer Tim Mortensen," the cop replied, tensing a little at seeing Harry's hand disappear into his jacket. "What would you call it?"

"Ease up, Officer Mortensen," Harry hadn't failed to notice how the cop's right hand had immediately lowered to hover near the pistol on his hip. _Suspicious bastard, isn't he? _"Just getting my ID for you." He slowly removed a slim leather case and held it out to the cop. "I'm Harry Potter, CIA. I'm in the middle of an investigation – surely you've heard of the recent problems at this address."

The cop nodded, still sporting a suspicious look. "Doesn't seem like something the CIA would be interested in," he snagged the ID case out of Harry's hand. "And you're a little young to be an agent."

Harry smirked, "I'm older than I look."

"You got a second ID to corroborate this one?"

Harry nodded, "Sure do." He reached around to his back pocket and got out his wallet. He removed his driver's license and handed it to the cop.

The officer peered at the out-of-state license and compared the photo on it with the one in the leather ID case. "What's your birthday?"

Harry rolled his eyes, _Definitely a suspicious swot. _"It's right there, on both IDs. July thirty-first, 1980. And before you ask, my DL number is 289BR3948, my agent-identification number is FL9948-HNTWZ-999, I'm _not_ listed as an organ-donor, and yeah, my height really _is_ sixty-six inches." Harry snagged both his IDs back from the officer, allowing his irritation into his voice, along with a healthy dose of condescension. "Now, Officer Mortensen, I _do_ need to return to my job. Feel free to call Langley – they'll simply confirm that I am here on official business. You need to go; I'm sure there are donuts going uneaten back at your station." Harry stepped back and slammed the door in the officer's face.

Turning around, Harry saw that he had the full attention of the other four men. Sam and Dean were both wearing similar smiles, Bobby had a thoughtful look on his face – like he'd finally managed to figure out something he'd been working on for a while – and Remus may as just as well come right out and said 'are you sure that was wise'.

After a couple of moments of silence, Harry let out a little puff of laughter, "Well?"

"Well what?" Sam asked.

"We going to finish this or not?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, returning to his guard position, keeping an eye out for any sign of Justine's spirit.

Over the next half an hour, Remus and Harry got everything set up. Harry had just taken his own guard position outside the protective circle Remus had laid when the knock returned. "Oh, for the love of –" Dean stomped over to the door and flung it open. "What?"

Officer Mortensen was back, if he had even left. The officer took one look at the shotgun gripped loosely in Dean's right hand, saw Bobby and Sam similarly armed, and immediately drew his pistol, "Drop the weapons!"

Harry spoke before any of the three Hunters could comply, "No." He strode over to the cop, his motorcycle boots thudding heavily on the worn wooden floorboards. He sighed a little and tugged Dean out of the doorway. "We're not getting rid of you, are we?"

Though the question was meant to be rhetorical, the officer answered, "I knew you were full of shit." He was trying to cover the entire entry way, but wasn't doing a very good job. His eyes darted to where Remus was kneeling in the center of a salt circle, surrounded at regular intervals with as-yet-unlit tapers. "Now tell me what the _fuck's_ really going on here!"

Sam caught the officer's gaze and held it as he slowly stooped and sat the shotgun down. "Sir, we're just trying to help." Sam straightened and took a small step towards the officer.

"No, just stay right there," Mortensen brandished his pistol.

Bobby followed Sam's example in setting down his shotgun – which, unlike the Winchester's, was a full-sized, single-barrel, pump-action. "Son, just calm down. Lower your gun before someone gets hurt."

While Bobby spoke, Remus and Harry exchanged a glance. Remus nodded minutely and shifted to aim his wand at the intruding officer. "Stupefy," he said conversationally.

The officer whirled in Remus' direction, only to be hit in the chest with a bolt of red light before collapsing on the floor. The gun skittered across the dusty boards and came to a halt just barely touching the ring of salt.

"Bloody suspicious bastard," Harry muttered stepping over to the unconscious man. He conjured the most uncomfortable chair he could imagine while Dean closed the door and Sam and Bobby picked up their guns. Levitating the officer onto the chair, Harry then bound him in place with several sticking charms. He accioed the officer's gun and re-secured it in the holster before pausing long enough to stretch.

"You got it, Harry?" Remus asked.

"Yeah. Won't be more than a minute or three."

"Got what?" Bobby inquired.

"Obliviating the man, of course," Remus explained.

Harry shook his head, "Not a full removal of the memories, I don't think. Simply a matter of tweaking what he saw."

Despite his claim, it took about ten minutes for Harry to delve into the man's mind and restructure the memories the man had of coming to the house into something that wouldn't raise later suspicions. While mucking about in the man's mind, Harry also left a low-level compulsion for the man to not look too deeply at the memories Harry was leaving. When he finished, Harry banished the chair and levitated the man back to the door. Pausing long enough for Remus to hit the both of them with an invisibility charm, Harry then took the cop out to his car and buckled the man in. He dispelled the invisibility charm on Mortensen, aimed his wand at the car, and murmured, "Portus." _With any luck, the car park up at Sharky's is still rather empty,_ he thought as he activated the car-turned-portkey.

On returning to the house, Remus removed the invisibility charm from Harry. "Where'd you send him?"

"That bar we had lunch at," Harry replied. "I was tempted to send the nosy bugger to Death Valley."

"You'll explain all that later, I hope." Bobby grinned a little at the two wizards.

"Certainly," Remus replied, returning to his former position in the salt circle. He lit the candles around him and started the ritual.

Sam, Bobby, and Dean all paid close attention to what Remus was doing – it wasn't quite the same process that was described in the_ Necronomicon_. The symbol Remus drew on a piece of parchment was the same, but that was where the similarity stopped. There were some incantations in Latin, the burning of some spices – notably cinnamon and nutmeg – and a fair bit of wand usage before Remus took the piece of parchment and dusted it with the ashes from the burned spices. The ash seemed to sink into the paper along with the ink of the sigil, and reappeared, forming lines. Leaning a little closer, Sam saw that the lines were words, and wonder of wonders, the words were in English.

_Favored son of wolf and man,  
What you seek is very near,  
So frown not, nor smile wan,  
Cast your eyes to the skies,  
and the answer shall appear._

The verse was signed with the same symbol Remus had drawn on it earlier.

Remus read the verse out loud and looked up. "You think maybe Justine's bones are somewhere upstairs?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, "No – I looked all over the second floor. I think I would have noticed a corpse lying around."

Bobby sighed, "I hate to point out the obvious, boys, but if I was the one who put all this in place, I think I'd hide the bones under the floorboards of the room with the spells in it."

Working together, it took about an hour to find and remove the skeleton. It was, as Bobby had suggested, hidden in the empty space between the floor of the second story and the ceiling of the first, directly under the center of the septagram. Not wanting to risk a repeat of the incident with the leech, they removed the bones by cutting away the ceiling of what had once been a dining room. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when the five men trouped to the house's tiny back yard. Sam and Bobby piled the bones in a heap while Dean sprinkled them liberally with salt and lighter fluid. Dropping a match, the lighter fluid quickly caught.

The five men were just about to leave when the bones caught fire. At that moment, a flare of painfully bright light came from the upstairs room that housed the septagram and an unearthly wail filled the air. It tapered off quickly, just as smoke started coming from the window to the room. "Looks like that spell unraveled itself," Remus commented as the first flashes of fire showed through the grimy glass.

"Told ya we shoulda just burned the place down," Dean grinned.

"Come on, pyro, let's get going before the fire department shows up," Sam tugged on Dean's shoulder.

* * *

**A/N2:** Though I really liked writing this chapter, I feel as though it comes across sounding forced. I hope that part's all my imagination and that you all enjoyed it. 

Review and make me smile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Merry Thanksgiving to all of you who celebrate. This wasn't intended to be a full chapter, more of a holiday bonus for everyone. I hope you all enjoy it!

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_12:10 am, October 13, 2007  
Room 216, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Sam, Remus, and Harry opted not to go to a bar with Dean and Bobby after finishing up in Leeville; both Remus and Harry had a high enough tolerance for alcohol that trying to get buzzed would have been an expensive proposition, and Sam just didn't feel like doing the bar scene, so when Dean pulled the Impala to a stop at a small pub a few blocks from the motel, he'd chosen to return with Harry and Remus. Sam had wasted some time in packing up both his and Dean's things and spent a couple of hours channel-surfing while Harry and Remus chatted in the room next door. His mind kept returning to what Remus had said about how Bobby had been directed this way to hunt down a spirit that the minions of Hell couldn't collect on their own, and how Dean had sold himself to bring Sam back.

"Penny for your thoughts," Harry's voice startled Sam out of his musings. Sam reached up, remote in hand, and turned off the softly playing television. He hadn't really been watching it anyway.

"I was just thinking on what Remus said last night, about how frustrated Hell must be if they're not able to collect the soul of that dark wizard…" Sam trailed off, not sure what else to say.

"I've been thinking about it, too. However, I doubt our thoughts on the subject ran on similar tracks. What did you come up with?"

Sam shook his head, "Nothing new." He sighed, "I just wish that my life didn't keep coming back to demons and evil. I understand that I'll never really be _normal_ – I know too much about what's really out there – but…"

Harry smiled a bittersweet smile, "Stop. Just stop right there, Sam. Wishing doesn't fix anything – I should know, I've done more than my fair share of it." Harry stepped fully into the room and sat on Dean's bed, facing Sam. "What's really bothering you?"

"What's really bothering me?" Sam jerked his head towards the clock on the table between the two beds. "That's what's bothering me. Two-hundred and fifty days, now that it's past midnight."

"The deal Dean made."

Sam nodded, "Yeah."

"We started talking about this once before. Why don't we finish that conversation, yeah?" Sam shrugged. "You asked me what I knew about demon deals. I admit, I don't know nearly as much about them as I do about other branches of magic. From what I understand, Dean sold himself to a crossroads demon in exchange for you, and that's_ all_ I know about it."

"I don't know the exact wording of the deal," Sam rubbed the back of his neck, "but the general gist of it is that if Dean tries to get out of the deal, the deal's off and I go back to being dead."

"Merlin," Harry breathed. "He got himself in deep, didn't he?"

Sam let out a little huff of humorless laughter, "Yeah. Thing is, I can't really blame him for what he did. We've only ever really had each other and our dad, and with Dad gone… We're all that's left." Leaning his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, he said, "And I can't watch this again."

"Again?"

"A year and a half ago, we went after a rawhead. The Hunt went just about as bad as a Hunt can go and Dean got electrocuted. It damaged his heart. He wasn't supposed to live longer than a couple of weeks. I was able to fix the problem, even if it wasn't quite what I had expected."

"How's that?"

Sam shook his head, "It's unimportant. Just last year – November, to be precise – me and Dean and our dad were in a… Hell, it wasn't an 'accident'. The demon who had killed our mom crashed a semi into the Impala. Dean wasn't supposed to survive that time, either."

"How did he?"

"Dad… He actually did a deal with that damn demon who caused it all to begin with." Sam scrubbed a hand across his face. "I know this job isn't without its risks. I know that if we keep on with Hunting, one or the other or both of us isn't going to make it – but… Not like this. It shouldn't be like this." Sam met Harry's eyes, "I can't watch this again."

"Maybe you won't have to," Remus commented from the doorway.

Sam whipped his head around, "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Remus replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "Don't fret about it – I'm good at not being noticed."

"What do you mean, 'maybe I won't have to'?"

Remus joined Harry on Dean's bed, "Just that – maybe you won't have to watch your brother succumb to this deal."

"Remus," Harry peered closely at the older man, "what are you thinking?"

A grin surfaced on Remus' face the likes of which Harry had never seen outside of a pensieved memory. "You want to know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that you," he pointed to Harry, "just might be able to get Dean out of his deal."

"How?" Sam asked, a note of desperation tinged with pleading in his voice.

Not looking away from Harry, Remus spoke. "Correct me if I get any of this wrong," Harry nodded and Remus continued. "Point one: You owe a life-debt to Sam and his brother. Point two: You are literally the _only_ one who can permanently dispose of Voldemort. Point three: Hell itself is practically salivating for Voldemort's soul. Point four: We never used the Aroliantivashi."

Harry's eyes narrowed in thought for a split second before widening comically, "You sure you weren't a Slytherin, Moony?"

"Quite sure, Flick. I still have the red-and-gold ties to prove it. I _was_ a Marauder, though – Merlin knows, Marauders are likely the most Slytherin of Gryffindors."

Sam cleared his throat. "Excuse me? What are you two talking about?"

* * *

_12:30 am, October 13, 2007  
The Gator Den  
Houma, Louisiana_

Bobby lined up a tricky shot involving the nine ball, the thirteen, two ricochets and a corner pocket. "What d'you think the others are up to?" he asked, sinking the thirteen.

Dean shrugged, swallowing down a mouthful of beer. "Dunno. If I know Sam, he's probably managed to corner Remus into another long, drawn-out discussion on some author that's been dead for a hundred years. Couldn't tell ya what Harry might be doing."

Bobby lined up another difficult shot and re-chalked his cue before trying for it. "You still plannin' on helpin' him out with that problem of his?"

Dean grimaced, "Probably. I just hope we can do it from here. Ain't no way in Hell I'm getting back on an airplane, not after the last one."

"I been meanin' ta ask ya – just what is it with you and airplanes?" Bobby stepped back from the pool table after missing his attempt for the fourteen ball.

Dean circled the pool table, examining the location of all the solids. Taking an easy shot for the five, followed by one for the three, Dean explained, "What's not to get? They're tin cans with wings, carrying literally _tons_ of explosive fuel, tens of thousands of feet above the ground. They also tend to fall apart without warning. Didn't you hear about that one where the wing just blew off? Oh, and the one where the landing gear didn't work. The one that simply exploded moments after take-off because of a leaky fuel line and a short in the wiring. Airplanes are fuckin' death traps."

"You do know that cars kill more folk than planes, right?"

Dean sank the one ball and glared up at Bobby. "Yeah, but I trust my driving. I can take care of myself on the road, and if there's something coming up ahead of me that I can't avoid, I can always stop the car or take the option to cut out into some farmer's field. Ya can't do that in an airplane. And if something goes wrong with the Impala – not that it would, I take good care of my baby – there isn't a thirty-thousand foot drop to get it stopped and off the road."

* * *

_1:15 am, October 13, 2007  
The Gator Den parking lot  
Houma, Louisiana_

Sam, Harry, and Remus stood at the trunk of the Impala. Harry had opened it with a whispered 'alohomora'. While Remus kept an eye out for Bobby or Dean, Sam quickly gathered the things they would need, handing them to Harry, who shrank them as he stuffed them into his pockets. "You do know that you and your brother have some of the oddest things in here, right?"

"Says the man who carries around a trunk with the Library of Congress housed inside," Sam replied, rummaging through several packets and baggies of assorted powders, dirts, and herbs.

"At least most of the books have a purpose. Why, exactly, would you ever need a hairball from a black cat?" Harry asked, reading the label on one of the plastic baggies.

Sam glanced over at Harry, "You know, for a Hunter, you've got some serious gaps in your knowledge-base."

"How's that?"

"You haven't come across Hoodoo before?" Sam found the last of the things he needed and closed the lock-box in the trunk.

"Quasi-religious ancient magic, originally from Africa and that's about all I know about it."

Sam grabbed one of the two shovels from the main part of the trunk and shouldered it. "Well, it's got some weird ingredients. Kinda like that potion Snape made."

"You're sure you know how to summon it?" Harry asked, nodding in understanding at Sam's explanation.

"Yeah," Sam said, slamming the lid of the trunk closed. "Now all we need is to find a crossroads we can dig a hole in the middle of."

"That's easy enough," Remus cheerily supplied, removing his wand from his sleeve and holding it flat on his open palm. "Point me unpaved crossroads." The wand spun to the left.

Following Remus' wand, Harry, Sam, and the werewolf found an appropriate convergence of two alleyways after only ten minutes or so of walking. "Okay, now what?" Harry asked.

Sam smiled, "Well, you gotta get out those things I handed you, put them all in a box or a bag or something and bury it in the center of the crossroads. Oh, you have that picture of yourself I told you to bring?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah."

"Good. Make sure you include it in the box."

Remus conjured a small, wooden box and handed it to Harry. Harry quickly collected the items Sam had handed him earlier – dried yarrow blossoms, a small bottle of graveyard dirt, and the bone of a black cat among them – and resized them, putting them into the box, adding one of the few muggle-style photos of himself he owned last. Exchanging the box for the half-sized shovel, Harry struggled to scrape a hole out of the hard-packed, rock-choked confluence of the two alleyways. When the hole was deep enough, Harry set the box in it and pushed the dirt back into the hole. Looking up at Sam in the dim light from the streetlamps at either end of the alleyways, he asked, "What now?"

Instead of Sam answering, a feminine voice spoke from the shadows nearby. "Now we chat."

"Lumos," Remus muttered, and the end of his wand flared to a steady blue-white light, revealing the woman who spoke.

She was petite – even wearing a pair of wicked-looking spike-heeled boots, she only came up to Harry's chin – with long, dark red hair twisted into an elegant knot on the top of her head; full, pouting lips; and large, innocent blue eyes. She was wearing a flirty dark green dress and a short black leather jacket. Sam's eyes narrowed a little at the nearly-identical expressions of shock on Remus' and Harry's faces. The woman cocked her head slightly to the right, "Oh, Harry-dear," her eyes burned red for a moment, "I thought you'd appreciate this form."

"You may know my name, but you're out of line on that one, hellspawn," Harry hissed.

"Then you have my apologies." She flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I must confess, Harry, I never thought I'd get to meet you in the flesh."

"You've heard of me?"

She laughed lightly, "Of course. You _are_ famous, you know, and not just on the material plane."

"Can we cut the small-talk? I summoned you for a reason," Harry's glare had yet to fade.

Her smile faded some, "I am sorry, darling, but I'm not allowed to make a deal with you."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, "And just why might that be?"

She sighed, "Have you any idea how many people you've saved over the years? Or what else you've got ahead of you? Harry, honey, you're_ untouchable_. It wouldn't matter if you went out and committed the oldest sins in the book a thousand times over, I still couldn't deal for your soul."

_I didn't know that was possible,_ Sam thought.

The woman glanced over at Sam and then at Remus. She opened her mouth to speak, but Harry cut her off. "That's fine with me, hellspawn. Because I'm not making a deal with you – you're gonna make one with me."

"I just told you –"

"Yeah, I heard that. You, however, didn't hear what I just said," Harry cleared his throat and spat on the ground at her feet. "You _are_ going to deal with me, whether you want to or not."

"Oh? And what are you going to do to me if I don't?"

Harry's glare morphed into a truly evil expression, "Then you have my word I'll crawl into Hell itself and destroy every last one of you demonic motherfuckers."

The demon scoffed, "That's not possible."

"Look in my eyes and tell me I'm lying. If you know anything about me, you'll know I make a habit of doing the impossible on a regular basis," Harry's tone of voice made the skin on Sam's arms and the back of his neck break out in gooseflesh. "You'll also know that I keep my promises."

She blanched – a reaction Sam had never thought to see from a demon. "I'm still not allowed to deal for your soul."

"Understood," Harry said, his face relaxing into a neutrally pleasant half-smile. "I understand that you hellspawn are rather perturbed at Tom Marvolo Riddle."

She wrinkled her nose in distaste, "We've been after that arrogant wizard for going on thirty years now. Are you offering to get him for us?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. I had intended to simply destroy his soul – you know that it's well within my capabilities. I _could_ be persuaded to hand him over to you, but there's a price."

"I hate wizards," she murmured, then asked in her normal volume, "What's the price?"

"Dean Winchester."

The demon shook her head, "No. Sorry, but I can't do that."

"Yeah, you can," Harry insisted. "More importantly, you _will_. After all, how good would it look to have 'allowed Riddle's soul to slip through fingers' on your résumé?"

"He made his deal! He's not allowed to try to get out of it. If he does, then precious Sammy here will go back to being worm-food."

"That's just it, hellspawn. _Dean doesn't know I'm here_. _He_ isn't the one asking – _I_ am; which makes your threat to Sam all that much hot air." Harry smiled at her mutinous expression. "So, do we have an accord?" The woman didn't say anything. Harry stepped a little closer to her, "Just think about it… You release Dean from his deal, and I bring Riddle's soul to you. Just imagine… _You_ become responsible for the collection of the darkest soul to walk the Earth for the last hundred years, if not longer. _You_ get to take the one evil soul which has evaded capture for _thirty_ years directly to Hell. All you need to do is cancel one little vendetta. And really, is it so important in the greater scheme of things?"

Sam could see the naked desire that flashed across the demon's face and, for the first time, really understood how someone could be described as having the ability to talk the Devil into setting himself on fire. "Do we have an agreement?" Harry carefully enunciated each and every syllable.

She hesitated for only half a heartbeat before growling out, "Yes."

"Repeat it back to me."

"I void Dean's contract – ignoring the stipulation that would kill Sammy – and you bring me Voldemort's soul."

Harry's face relaxed completely into a friendly smile, "Precisely."

The redhead seized Harry's shoulders and kissed him soundly, though Sam could tell from Harry's stiff posture that the kiss was decidedly one-sided. "You'll have until Dean's expiration date to deliver, or else the deal's off."

"That wasn't part of the deal," Harry snarled.

"It was and it is, Harry. You have two-hundred and fifty days, or else Dean's contract is reinstated; you are taking over his deal, after all." The woman turned around and walked away, fading into the shadows between the buildings.

* * *

_3:12 am, October 13, 2007  
Room 216, Super 8 Motel  
Houma, Louisiana_

Sam, Harry, and Remus were in the middle of co-designing a ginormous monstrosity of a house in _The Sims 2_ on Harry's computer when Bobby and Dean returned from the bar. Dean noticed immediately how there was something undeniably different about his brother. _He seems… Happy. Truly, honestly fuckin' happy._

Bobby noticed it, too. "Did we miss somethin'?"

Remus, Sam, and Harry exchanged conspiratorially innocent glances and let out a simultaneous, "No. Not at all."

* * *

**A/N2:** I've got family plans for the first time in nearly fifteen years for the holiday that actually fall _on _the holiday for a change. It's positively surreal. 

I'm thankful for all your wonderful and stupendous reviews and for the fact that people not only read my silly little stories, but seem to honestly enjoy them. I hope y'all's Thanksgivings are happy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I hope y'all like this one. See my A/N2 for further info.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_11:25 am, October 13, 2007  
Super 8 Motel parking lot  
Houma, Louisiana_

"Merlin, Harry," Remus breathed on spotting the Harley in the parking lot. "You've had her all this time?" The werewolf sat down the wooden crate and five-gallon jug of holy water he'd been helping Bobby carry to the rental car and ran over to the vintage motorcycle.

Harry, his helmet under one arm, and his saddlebag slung over the opposite shoulder, laughed. "Yeah, Remus. There _is_ a reason I'm decked out for a bike, you know."

"I hadn't realized that it was _this_ bike, though," Remus reverently ran his hands over the handlebars.

"Did you two want some time alone?" Dean quipped, setting down the bags he was carrying and digging in his pocket for the keys to the Impala, which was parked next to Harry's bike. Sam and Bobby were busy checking out of the motel.

"No, no," Remus laughed. "It's just that… Merlin. _This_ bike."

"Harry, would you translate? Something's short-circuited Wolfy's brain."

"The motorcycle used to belong to my godfather, Sirius," Harry explained.

Dean tossed his and Sam's bags into the trunk, "And…?"

Remus, still smiling nostalgically at the Harley, clarified. "Sirius was the best friend I ever had, aside from Harry's dad. Sirius bought the bike in September of '76, just two days after the new models were released. We – the Marauders, that is – skived off class and took an unregistered international portkey to Milwaukee, where Sirius used a forged bank draft drawn on his parents' account, a transfigured ID that said he was eighteen, and no fewer than three separate compulsion charms to buy it. We were all just sixteen at the time."

Harry snorted, then chuckled, then burst out in uncontrollable laughter. "And," he gasped out, "_you_ were a prefect?"

Remus chuckled, "Yeah. Looking back, I'm still astonished that we_ lived_ through our school years, let alone managed not to get expelled."

"You look happy," Sam commented as he and Bobby strolled over from the office.

Dean leveled a cockeyed smirk in Sam's direction, "There's been a lot of that going around lately."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Sam replied, wearing a lighthearted grin.

Dean shrugged, "No, not bad. Just different." _As in really different and weird, particularly for you, especially lately._

"So what's the game plan now?" Bobby asked, ignoring the byplay of glances between Sam, Remus, and Harry. He knew there was something going on, he just wasn't sure what.

"Well, I figure you take your rental back to wherever it needs to go – Remus can go with you – and me and the Winchesters can meet you back at your place," Harry said. "I mean, there's no reason to stick around down here if the job's done, right? And I need some time to think up a plan of action concerning that megalomaniacal moron back in England."

"You realize my place is fifteen hundred miles north of here?" Bobby said as he loaded his mostly-unneeded things back into the trunk of the rental car.

"It isn't a problem, Bobby," Remus reassured the man. "I can get you home, as long as you know where I'm going."

"How's that work?" Bobby asked.

"I'll need you to picture our destination, very clearly, in the front of your mind. I'll look at it, and create a portkey that will take us there," Remus explained.

"I didn't know you knew legilimency," Harry said, securing his saddlebag to the bike.

"I'm not nearly at the level Severus is, but I can do a little. Surface images, mostly – and only that much if the person thinking it is concentrating on it. It's a side-effect of the lycanthropy." Remus lent Bobby a hand in putting the last of his things in the car.

"Is that how we'll be getting there?" Sam asked.

Harry shrugged, "Could, I suppose. Or I could apparate us there."

"Thought you said that you could only apparate two hundred miles?" Dean shut the trunk of the Impala.

Harry grinned, "I said that _most_ wizards could only apparate that far. I'm not most wizards."

Remus snorted, "That's putting things mildly."

Harry glared lightly at Remus, "Remus, please. Don't." Remus merely smiled innocently. "Or we could fly," Harry suggested.

Dean shook his head, "That's a big negatory on the flying – I ain't leaving my car behind. How 'bout we just drive?"

"Because that would take for-bloody-ever, and I don't feel like riding that far." Harry glanced around the parking lot and palmed his wand. He quickly shrank his motorcycle until it was no larger than a Hotwheels model, applied a unidirectional gravity charm on it – which would make sure that no matter what position it tumbled to in his pocket, the specific gravity forces acting on the fluids it contained would still pull towards the bottom of the wheels – and tucked it into his pocket.

"That can't be good on the motor," Bobby muttered.

"It doesn't do it any harm," Harry insisted.

"Where does the weight go?" Dean asked.

"Pardon?" Harry said at the same time Sam said, "Dude, what?"

"The weight. I mean, shrinking something – you're taking out the empty space, right? You're not messing with its whaddayacallit… mass, so it should still weigh the same," Dean explained his A to D thinking.

"And you call _me_ a geek," Sam muttered, leaning on the side of the Impala. _That's odd, _Sam thought, _I haven't thought of that in years… Dean used to pull straight-A's in all his science classes without ever studying. The only other class he could do that in was shop, and that's not exactly a studying kind of class._

Harry shrugged, "I honestly couldn't tell you why the weight changes, though your guess as to how a shrinking charm works is spot-on." He shrunk his helmet and stashed it in the pocket opposite the one containing his bike. "As to getting where we need to go, I'd say a portkey would be our best bet."

"What is a portkey?" Sam asked.

Remus answered, "It's a charmed object that takes passengers to a specific destination. It doesn't really matter what the object is – it could be anything from a slip of paper to a piece of jewelry to a boulder. Most portkeys are single-use items; either time- or phrase-activated. The ones that are permanently charmed for repeated use are almost universally jewelry and phrase-activated. I had a pendant that would take me to Order HQ during the War."

"How do they work?" was Bobby's question.

Remus shrugged, "It has something to do with Thelm's Fourth Law of Reality. I don't recall the exact wording, but it was to the effect that since all of our perceived reality is a single point of existence, a portkey or apparation doesn't truly move you, it simply changes your perceptions of the world around you. In truth, I've never really understood Thelm's Laws. They're confusing and contradictory at best. However, I _do_ know how to make a portkey and I further know that they work. _How_ they work isn't all that important."

Harry chuckled a little, "You know, Thelm's Laws make a _lot_ more sense if you read Hawking's 'A Brief History of Time' first. Hawking may be a muggle, but he has a singularly accurate view of the multiverse, not to mention a wicked sense of humor."

"When did you read Hawking?" Remus asked.

"Just after Sirius died. Hermione insisted I needed to distract myself from the wizarding world and lent me her copy. I stumbled across Thelm a couple of weeks later – oddly enough, just before Albus started teaching me how to apparate."

Remus shook his head, snorting out a disbelieving huff of amusement. "I suppose that explains your unsurpassed apparation abilities. Going into lessons on magical transportation with Albus – who, though one of the greatest mages of our time, _was_ a few pawns short of a chess game – and your head full of theories on how the world is merely perception…" Remus laughed again. "Only you, Harry."

"Not that this isn't fascinatin', but could we continue this later? Standin' around and jawin' ain't gettin' done what we need." Bobby pointedly opened the door to his rental car and got in.

"Too right," Remus agreed, striding across the now-empty slot in the parking lot which had contained Harry's motorcycle and joining Bobby in the rental. To Bobby, he asked, "It will take about an hour to return the vehicle, correct?"

"Yep."

Remus looked over at the Winchesters and Harry, "In that case, we'll see you in about an hour and ten."

"Later, Remus," Harry nodded to the werewolf.

After Bobby had backed the car out of its place and pulled away, Harry turned to face Dean and Sam. "Okay, we've got an hour to waste – so where to in the meantime?"

Sam asked, "So, these portkey-things… They're instantaneous, right?"

Harry nodded.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. "Jefferson's," they said simultaneously.

"Who's that?"

"Hunter-friendly arms dealer. Lives up in Tulsa," Dean explained.

"Where, exactly? I've been through Tulsa a few times, so I shouldn't need a mental picture of the place if you know the address."

"1320 West First Street South. Coupla blocks west of Zeigler Park, across the river from the Sun refinery."

* * *

_12:00 pm, October 13, 2007  
1320 W 1__st__ St S  
Tulsa, Oklahoma_

After obtaining Dean's permission to charm the Impala into a single-use portkey and subsequently appearing in the mostly-deserted parking lot of a softball field, Dean was humming along to the music playing on the tape deck as he drove the few blocks to their destination. Sam, on the other hand, was looking a little green. "Don't worry about it, mate. I felt the same way the first time I had to use a portkey. The feeling goes away if you do it enough times," Harry reassured his friend.

Jefferson's house was a small, one-story white clapboard in the middle of a neighborhood which had definitely seen better days, yet had not quite degenerated to the status of a slum. A handful of children were playing in piles of leaves, ignoring the overcast sky threatening rain. The Impala pulled to a stop in front of a house that was one of the few without what Harry thought of as 'kid-sign' – toys and whatnot littering the yard. There was a beat-up, old, nauseatingly neon green pickup on risers in the driveway, a pair of heavy brown work boots and the ends of a pair of jean-encased legs sticking out from under it. Dean turned the car off and opened the door.

The sound of metal clanging against metal, interspersed with angry growls filtered into the Impala. "Goddamn you, you motherfucking piece of dog-shit!" _clang, clang, clang_ "You _will_ go in the motherfucking hole, whether you want to or not!"

Dean and Sam traded amused glances and climbed out of the car. Harry followed their example. "Problems, Jefferson?" Sam asked, his tone lightly teasing.

The steady _clang, clang_ coming from under the truck halted. "I know that voice," Jefferson said and scooted out from under the truck. He spotted Sam and Dean and grinned. "Sam! Dean! What brings you by my place on such a shitty day?"

Harry hadn't known precisely what to expect, but the man sitting on a small dolly on the driveway was far from what he'd pictured. Even sitting, Harry could tell that the man was probably about the same height as Dean, maybe a shade shorter, but still a good six inches taller than Harry was. He had an ageless face with dark brown, almond-shaped eyes, a prominent hawk-like nose, high cheekbones, a strong chin, and full lips. His hair was tied back with a rubber band, was a glossy blue-black – though it sported several strands of white – and reached the middle of his back. He was wearing boots, jeans, and a filthy white t-shirt under a battered camo-print army jacket that had seen better days.

"We need to restock," Dean said. "What's wrong with Godzilla?" he nodded towards the truck.

Jefferson held out his left hand, "Give an old man a hand up." Dean pulled the man to his feet and that's when Harry realized that Jefferson's right jacket-sleeve was rolled and pinned to the point where the man's right arm abruptly stopped at the elbow. "Would you believe the damn thing just up and dropped the tranny? Right in the middle of the fuckin' parkin' lot of Homeland."

Dean laughed, "I keep tellin' you ya need to switch over to Chevy, man. Ford's just an acronym for 'Fucked-Over-Rebuild-Disaster'."

Jefferson joined in on Dean's laugh. "I know, I know. Still, me an' 'Zilla here've been through a shitload together. Can't just haul 'im off without havin' a go at one last repair." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a battered pack of Marlboro reds. "Hafta admit, it's a switch seein' y'all in the daylight."

"We were in the neighborhood," Harry supplied, retrieving his own smokes and his silver Zippo. He lit Jefferson's cigarette and then his own.

"Since when do Winchesters take on strays?" Jefferson asked after thanking Harry for the light.

"Since we keep running into each other," Sam replied, waiving a double-dose of blue smoke out of his face. "Dean and I first met Harry working a gig up in Iowa. Ran into him again down in Louisiana. Found out the three of us make a pretty good team."

"That so?" Jefferson said, a note of ironic disbelief in his voice, staring at Harry.

"Yeah," Harry replied, meeting the man's eyes with no little surfacing of his own stubborn streak.

The two men stared at each other for a good thirty seconds before both nodded. "I think I like you, kid," Jefferson finally said. "You got a last name?"

"Potter."

"Well, Harry, I'm Shomikase Jefferson. You Hunt, I assume?"

Harry nodded, "A bit."

"Well, then. Y'all mentioned needin' restockin'?" Jefferson ground his cigarette out on the side of his truck and flicked the butt onto the cracked concrete driveway.

"That we did," Dean said.

Harry dropped his own butt on the ground and stepped on it before following Jefferson, Dean, and Sam into the small house. The house was decorated in warm colors and sported both African and Native American artwork in equal measure. On the wall facing the front door, there was a framed black and white wedding photo of a stately, tall Native American woman and a shorter black man, both of whom had a striking resemblance to Jefferson. A slightly smaller photo hung beside the first; this one in color and depicting an obviously youthful Jefferson, dancing with another handsome woman with laughing eyes and long, jet hair.

"My parents – Niabi and Marcus," Jefferson explained, seeing where Harry's eyes had lingered. "The other one is me and Misae, back when we were still young and stupid."

"Speaking of your beautiful and charming wife," Dean said, surreptitiously glancing around as though he expected her to jump out from behind the sofa and shout 'boo!', "just where is she?"

"Visitin' her family for the week."

Dean let out a sigh of relief. "So, Jefferson… We need consecrated iron shot, and some more salt-shells."

Jefferson led the way to a nearly-hidden door between the living room and the kitchen. "Can do. How many of each ya need?"

"Just the standard, I think," Sam replied as the four of them made their way into the basement of the small house.

"I got a hundred rounds of salt worked up – woulda been more, but Patty Wandell bought up a caseload yesterday," Jefferson flicked a light and a bank of overhead fluorescents flickered into life, showcasing a basement room which could easily be considered a threat to national security – if it was ever found by the Feds.

"Patty Wandell?" Sam asked. "How come that name sounds familiar?"

Before Jefferson could turn around, Dean leveled a meaningful glare at his brother. Sam's eyes widened a little, understanding flashing through his hazel eyes. _I wonder what that was all about? _Harry thought as Sam quickly schooled his face and listened to Jefferson. "She's Steve Wandell's daughter. Took up Huntin' full-time when somethin' nasty killed her pop." He sat a heavy-looking box down on a workbench. "In any case, here's the last of the salt-rounds. What else did y'all need?"

"Consecrated iron," Dean replied.

Jefferson gestured to the far end of the basement workroom. "Same place as always."

"Two boxes," Sam reminded Dean as the older Winchester retrieved the ammunition they were after. "What do we owe you?"

"A hundred salt, two boxes of iron… Comes ta a hundred-ten flat." Sam reached for his wallet as Jefferson turned to Harry. "How 'bout y'all?"

"No, thanks, though. I'm good." Harry smiled.

"You sure?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah. I don't like guns all that much. They tend to be a bit on the noisy side."

Jefferson, a thoughtful look on his face, looked Harry over. "Hmm… Lemme guess – you're more of a bowman?"

Harry shrugged, "I have used one on occasion."

"I think I got just the thing for ya," Jefferson strode to a large cabinet just under the stairs. Sliding the doors open, a full two dozen different bows and crossbows were revealed, along with hundreds of arrows and bolts of various materials and lengths.

While Harry looked over the contents of the cabinet, Jefferson returned to the Winchesters. "Y'all wanna check somethin' out for me?"

"It's not a Hunt, is it? 'Cause we're kinda in the middle of something," Dean replied.

Jefferson shook his head, "No, man. Ain't a Hunt. Might come in useful durin' one, though." He rummaged around on the workbench and pulled a cardboard box out from under a short stack of well-thumbed books. "Got word 'bout the demons that got loose and thought y'all could use somethin' special. Been tryin' ta get my regular customers to give 'em a go an' lemme know if they work." He opened the box and handed a bullet to Dean and an identical one to Sam.

Holding it up to the light, Dean looked closely at it. "It's a nine-mil, but what's it made of?" The actual bullet was oddly clear, like it was made of glass.

"Plastic. They're filled with holy water," Jefferson explained. "I only just came up with 'em two weeks ago. Patty didn't want any, said she'd stick with the iron for now 'cause she knows it works."

"Got any for a .45?" Dean asked.

Jefferson grinned and removed two smaller boxes from the large cardboard one. "Somehow, I just _knew_ y'all were gonna ask me that. I got twenty rounds for a .45 and twenty for a nine-mil. They're yours, free of charge – just lemme know how they do."

* * *

_1:15 pm, October 13, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

The Impala appeared in the Winchester's usual parking space fifteen yards from the front door of Bobby's house. Bobby and Remus were standing on the porch, obviously having just arrived themselves. "So what did you do?" Bobby asked, opening the front door with his keys. "I figured you'd get here ahead of us."

"We stopped by Jefferson's on the way up," Sam explained, climbing out of the car.

"Yeah, he's got some new bullets he wants some feedback on," Dean followed Sam's example in getting out of the Impala and tossed the box of .45 bullets to Remus.

Remus caught them and opened the box. "What're these?"

"Holy water in a plastic shell," Sam explained.

Bobby paused in opening the door and took a closer look at the bullet Remus was holding up. "Fine idea," he said, his voice tinged with admiration. "Wish I'd thought of it. Any idea if they work?"

"That's what we're gonna find out," Dean replied as Remus put the shell back in the box and threw it back to him.

Remus looked around, "Hey… Where's Harry?"

"Still haggling with Jefferson, I imagine," Sam replied.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, Jefferson had some longbow or something that Harry went all ga-ga over. Could barely drag him away long enough to get him to spell the car to bring us up here – he was tryin' to get Jefferson to take ten times what he was asking for the bow." Dean snagged one of Bobby's bags from the floor of the porch. "Said he'd be here when he'd 'talked some sense into the man'."

Remus huffed out an amused chortle. "How proud is this Jefferson?"

"Well, his mom was Osage, his dad was career army, and he was an Air Force pilot," Sam replied.

"Simply put, he pretty much defines the word 'proud'," Dean clarified.

Remus held the door as Sam and Dean, each pausing for one of Bobby's bags, followed Bobby inside. "In that case," he said, "it may be a while. Harry's nothing if not stubborn."

Three and a half hours later, a loud _crack_ sounded from the vicinity of the front porch, interrupting the impromptu game of five-card-draw that had sprung up among Bobby, Remus, Dean, and Sam. Harry glanced around himself and let out a relieved sigh. "At least that went smoothly," he murmured. He knocked loudly on the front door, "Remus! Bobby!"

"Door's open, Harry!" Bobby yelled.

The door creaked open and Harry's footsteps _thunked_ across the floor of the book-choked living room until he appeared, framed by the kitchen doorway, holding a long, hard plastic bow case and sporting a broad grin. "You know, Bobby, somehow I think Snape would approve of your place – he's something of a paranoid bibliophile, too." Remus chuckled and looked up from his cards. Harry's grin brightened, "And Remus… You'll never bloody guess what I found."

"Okay, I'll bite… What did you find?" Remus asked, setting his hand face-down on the table.

"I'll give you a hint – the wizarding world has been searching for it since the sixth century," Harry ran a hand down the length of the bow case.

Remus' eyes widened and he stood quickly enough that his chair clattered to the floor. "No way. No bloody way!"

"Yes way," Harry insisted and sat the bow case on the table. He nodded towards Remus, "Go ahead. Open it."

Remus unlatched the case and opened it. Curious, Bobby, Sam, and Dean sat their own cards down and looked, too. Nestled in sparkly blue-black foam rubber was the distinctive shape of a hand-carved bow. The wood was dark with age, except along the handle, where it was an odd bone-gray shade and shiny with repeated, long-term use. Lifting it gently from the foam, the design along the front of the bow became clear. The bow was just a little under four feet long, and was carved to resemble a three-part braid. The 'strands' of the braid still bore a faint echo of the pigments long-ago added to the wood; one was tinged a faint green, one was still dully red, and the third had whispers of blue. At either end of the bow, right next to the indentations that were meant to keep the string in place, was a moonstone inset.

"Merlin, Harry… You really did find it, didn't you?" The awe in Remus' voice was something akin to how Dean imagined a Bible-thumping Jesus-freak would sound if they suddenly discovered they'd stumbled across the Holy Grail at a farm auction in Podunk, USA.

"Um, aside from the obvious… What the heck is it?" Sam asked, staring at the ancient bow.

"It's the Bow of Diana – the weapon Mordred used to slay Arthur Pendragon at the Battle of Camlann in 537," Remus explained. "Contrary to what modern fiction has made of the tale of King Arthur, the Pendragon line were some of Britain's most ruthless rulers." On seeing the blatantly skeptical looks gracing the faces of the three muggle Hunters in the room, Remus sighed. "Look, you've heard the old saying that history is written by the victors, right?" Sam, Bobby, and Dean nodded. "Same story here. The wizarding world actually tried to curb their nastier tendencies by appointing Merlin Ambrosius – the strongest mage of the time, and a well-respected follower of the Light – as the Pendragon Court Wizard, in the hopes that his guidance would be enough to halt the abuse the Pendragon line heaped on their people.

"In 535, Arthur Pendragon staged a campaign to overtake what few kingdoms on the British Isles which were not yet under his rule. Thousands died. Eventually, the only kingdom that had yet to succumb to Pendragon's armies was that of Camlann – modern-day Somerset. Mordred – who was _not_ Arthur's son, but his nephew by Morgause and King Lot of Orkney – was a disciple of Diana. When he learned that his uncle was marching on Camlann, legends say that he prayed to Diana who took pity on him and gifted him with her own personal hunting bow. _This _bow." Remus took a shaky breath and sat it reverently back into the case. "Mordred managed to mortally wound Arthur with the bow – after killing most of Arthur's approaching army – but was struck down when he failed to notice Gwenhwyfar behind him. Gwenhwyfar was _not_ Arthur's wife and queen, but his pet veela – a race of dangerous magical beings that can and do kill when angered sufficiently."

"How do you know it isn't just a mock-up?" Dean asked.

Harry grinned, "Touch it."

"Excuse me?"

"Just touch it. Even non-magic folk can feel the power it carries," Harry insisted.

Sam, Dean, and Bobby all exchanged small glances. Sam shrugged a little and reached out and touched the wood lightly with his right hand. He chuckled a little, "Dude, that's a rush."

"What, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"It's like standing too close to a big generator," Sam explained, removing his hand from the bow.

Bobby reached out and touched the wood of the handle lightly, almost as though he expected it to bite him. "Sam's right – it's a lot like a Vandergraph generator," Bobby removed his hand and rubbed it on his shirt.

Curious Dean reached out and ran a finger along the handle of the bow. It didn't really feel like much to Dean, _It's maybe a little warmer than it should be, but I don't really see what all the fuss is about_. The tip of his finger snagged a splinter. Dean hissed and turned his hand a little to examine his fingertip. A single crimson droplet of blood welled from the pinprick hole and splattered onto the handle of the bow.

The bow handle absorbed the droplet of blood, leaving no sign of its existence on the ancient wood. In a matter of moments, the dim echoes of color brightened considerably, the color racing out, away from the handle. As the colors reached the moonstone insets at either end, there was a blinding flash of silvery light that lingered for several moments. When it finally faded, Dean was slumped across the table, snoring quietly.

Sam reached over and shook Dean's shoulder. "Dean? Dean! Wake up." Dean murmured something unintelligible and rolled off the chair, landing with a muffled _oof_ noise on the floor. "Dean!" Sam shouted. It had less of an effect than shaking his shoulder.

"What the _hell_ just happened?" Bobby demanded, looking to Remus.

"I don't know," Remus replied. "It… Well… Look," he gestured to the bow, which now looked brand-new, save for the lack of a string.

* * *

_Time unknown, October 13, 2007  
Kitchen floor of Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

"_Am I dreaming?" Dean said aloud, his voice echoing strangely through a thick, silvery mist._

"_No," a woman's voice replied. "You're not dreaming. You aren't quite awake, by any means, but you're not dreaming."_

_Dean whirled around, but couldn't locate precisely where the voice was coming from. "Show yourself!" he shouted into the fog._

"_There's no need to shout," the woman said, her voice much nearer than it had been a moment before._

_Dean spun in place again, "Who are you?"_

_The fog cleared somewhat directly in front of him, revealing a tall androgynous figure with short-cropped dark hair. Dean was pretty sure the figure was female – she was wearing a leather band around her chest and a short skirt held in place by a thin golden belt with no shoes. She smiled at Dean. "You're not normally the type I prefer – but beggars can't be choosers in this case, Dean Winchester. Your heart is in the right place, which is all that truly matters."_

"_Who are you?" Dean repeated._

"_You know who I am. Unfortunately, I really can't tell you much of anything," She sighed. "Rules are rules are rules and no one is ever free of them."_

"_What_ can_ you tell me?"_

"_Three things. Firstly, you need to string the bow with unicorn hair. Secondly, you need to stop blaming yourself for things outside your control. Third and lastly, I know you call yourself a Hunter, but now you can honestly do so."_

"_What does that mean?"_

_The fog thickened and the woman faded from view, "I'm sorry, Dean, but I really can't tell you any more."_

"_Wait! Come back!" Dean shouted into the mist. "What the hell is going on?"_

"_Find the stag, Dean," her voice echoed out of the fog, "and find your answers."_

* * *

_5:00 pm, October 13, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

Dean had only been out for a moment when he gasped and sat up, "What the_ fuck_ just happened?"

"We're not sure," Harry answered as Sam pulled Dean to his feet.

Dean caught sight of the renewed bow and shook his head. "You know, I've seen and experienced some _extremely_ fucked up shit in my life. Until today, the weirdest thing I ever did was kill a shapeshifter while it looked like me. This…" he made a vague motion towards the bow as he sat back down at the table, "is just about a thousand times more weird than that."

"What happened, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Didn't I just ask that myself?"

Sam rolled his eyes and returned to his own seat. "Not what I meant, Dean, and you know it."

Dean licked his lips and shook his head a little, "Weirdo dream, Sammy – that's all."

"What did you see?" Harry asked.

"A tomboy-looking chick talking a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about a stag and unicorns."

Harry and Remus exchanged a look. "What did she say, exactly?"

* * *

**A/N2:** Per Super-Wiki, there is very little known about the SN character of Jefferson, so everything in here is stuff I've made up. The first name I picked for him is a combination of the Osage words that mean 'Coyote', and was pulled from familytreemaker (dot) genealogy (dot) com (slash) users (slash) p (slash) a (slash) r (slash) Kelly-D-Park (slash) FILE (slash) 0011text (dot) txt. The names of his mom (Niabi – fawn) and wife (Misae – white sun) came from triple-w (dot) 20000 (dash) names (dot) com (slash) female (underscore) native (underscore) american (underscore) names (dot) htm. 

Yes, I'm fully aware that I've completely bastardized the Roman mythology surrounding Diana, as well as the whole Arthurian legend – this was on purpose. I know the originals – and really enjoy them, too – but I thought they'd add a little something extra to the tale. I hope it was effective.

And I hope I didn't piss anyone off with the Bible-thumping Jesus-freak comment – I meant no offense; it's just something that Dean would think.

Reviews are coolness in the drudgery of my life.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Just a quick reassurance – the girl Dean meets out at the lake isn't a love interest. I hope I made that clear. She's also not going to stick around longer than a single conversation, though she may or may not show up in the final installment of this trilogy (I just don't know yet). The whole interaction is loosely based on something that happened in my own life about three years or so ago – so don't try to tell me that meaningful conversations with strangers don't happen because it did to me (and does this sentence sound as bitchy as I think it does?)

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_6:13 pm, October 13, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

"So, let me get this straight," Dean said, leaning back on the kitchen chair. "Not only are _unicorns_ real, but apparently I had a conversation with a god?"

Remus grimaced a little, "_Goddess_, actually. Get it right. Diana isn't exactly known for keeping a cool head if insulted."

"So what did she mean by 'find the stag and find your answers'?" Dean glanced up at Bobby and nodded as the older Hunter handed him a beer from the fridge, "Thanks, man." Sam had a smug little grin on his face. Dean took a swallow of the beer, "Dude! What?"

"Nothing," Sam replied.

Dean glared a little at his brother. "What, Sam?"

Sam let out a little laugh. "It just… A couple of things, really. Mainly, it was _Diana_. You know, also known as Artemis – what better goddess for a Hunter than one who's a hunter herself?"

"And…?" Dean sighed, pretty sure he knew what else Sam had in mind.

"And… Well, I hate to say I told you so, but…" Sam shrugged as though to say, 'well, there you have it.'

"Hang on a tic," Harry said with a light smile. "You mean to tell me that you, Dean – Hunter of Evil-with-a-capital-E – didn't believe in the existence of the gods?"

Dean shook his head slightly, "I said it back when I first met you. I believe in what I can see. I've seen the badness in this world, therefore it exists. I'd never come across any sort of proof that there was another side to all that."

"Well you wouldn't, now would you?" Remus said, thinking, _And just what would you call yourself?_ Dean threw the werewolf a 'WTF' look and Remus explained, "Evil is flashy, showy. It likes to announce its presence and show off. Evil feeds off of fear and it's impossible to fear something you don't know is there. The larger evils like demons also tend to be rather blatant about their actions. Not only do they feed off of fear and hate, but they also have the driving need to collect souls. It would be hard for demons to do that if they couldn't show people how powerful they are."

"And you're saying the 'good' side doesn't do that?" Dean was quite obviously skeptical.

Bobby knew where Remus was heading and jumped in, "Hell no, the good side don't need ta be flashy. How often do good things make the news, Dean? An airplane that _didn't_ crash? A kid that decided_ not_ to shoot his bullies? Or, in our line of work, how 'bout all them spirits who _don't_ linger? The folks who _don't_ get possessed?"

Dean stared at his half-empty beer bottle for several minutes, the room mostly silent. Abruptly, he stood, "I'm gonna go for a drive. Back later."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Sam caught his eye and shook his head. After the front door banged shut, Sam said, "He just needs some time to digest all this. He'll probably be back in a couple of hours."

"Is he going to be okay with all of this?" Remus asked, concerned.

Bobby shrugged, "Either he is or he isn't. Personally, I'm guessin' that he'll be all right with it."

"Eventually," Sam agreed. "In the meantime, though… He's gonna be freaked."

"Ya know, I hate ta ask but it's been buggin' me – just what happened when me and Dean left you boys at the motel last night?"

Sam, Remus, and Harry exchanged innocent looks. "Nothing," Sam replied. "Why do you ask?"

"C'm on, Sam! I ain't blind, an' I ain't stupid. You three did somethin' and I wanna know what!"

"We talked for a bit," Harry said. "I showed Sam and Remus a couple of games on my computer."

Bobby glared lightly at his three guests. "And…?"

"It's the truth," Remus attested.

"I never said it wasn't. What else did you three get up to?"

"Nothing too serious," Harry smirked. "Just our job."

"Yeah," Remus echoed Harry's expression, "you know – the whole fighting-back-the-dark thing."

"You three are about one smart-ass comment away from bein' blasted with a load of rock salt."

"Is he serious?" Harry asked Sam.

Sam bit his lip and shrugged, "He usually is."

"That's it," Bobby grumbled, "where'd I leave my shotgun?"

"Now, there's no need to get violent," Remus said.

"Then tell me what the hell is goin' on!"

Sam chuckled, "Remus figured out a way to give Dean a fighting chance."

"How's that?" Bobby asked, calming significantly. "I been lookin' into things since that fool boy went and did what he done and ain't come up with anything."

"It all boils down to the fact that I'm going after a big bad – again – and this time, I refuse to do so for free," Harry grinned.

"What did you do?" Bobby pressed, trying to ignore the sudden tightening in his gut.

Harry's grin brightened, "Nothing you wouldn't have, had you not been in my position."

"Don't be too sure about that." Remus and Harry both laughed. "Damn it, what did you do? Make _another_ damn deal?"

"Sorta," Sam admitted.

"God save me from bullheaded Winchesters," Bobby whispered and then said, "Don't you _ever_ learn?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Bobby," Harry interrupted. "This wasn't Sam's idea, and Dean doesn't know about it – I'd like to keep it that way, if it's all the same to you."

"What were the terms?" Bobby asked, scrubbing a hand across his face.

"Nothing I can't deliver," Harry reassured him.

"If it makes any difference," Sam supplied, "Harry didn't cut a deal with the crossroads demon – she cut one with him."

"I fail to see the distinction."

Remus shrugged, "It's simple, really. Instead of trading his soul for Dean's, as the first option would imply, he agreed to deliver Voldemort's spirit to the crossroads demon in exchange for her canceling her claim on Dean."

"And just how do you plan to do that?"

Harry shrugged a little, "I'm not too sure on that just yet; besides, I don't like plans. Plans have an annoying tendency to fall apart just when there's no hope for a backup. I need to reread a couple of spell books and verify some facts. Get a general idea as to how to go about things this time."

"But no plans," Remus nodded.

"Yeah, abso-fucking-lutely no hard planning – only soft. By the way, I've been thinking, Remus."

"What else is new?" Remus replied.

"Ha-ha. We'll likely want to see what else that gun of Dean's can do and see if Hagrid will give us enough unicorn hair to braid a string for the bow." Harry's eyes flicked to the still-open bow case on the table, "Dean's bow. Oh, and we'll need to stop by Minerva's office and pick up the Aroliantivashi when we head back to Europe."

Bobby blinked at the two British men sitting at his kitchen table. "You've lost me."

"Um, yeah," Sam nodded, "me, too."

"The Aroliantivashi," Remus explained, "is one of the few magical relics which pre-date Merlin. It's a stone bottle. An unbreakable stone bottle which was carved with the sole intention of imprisoning spirits until such time they could be properly disposed."

"'Properly disposed'? Somethin' tells me you don't mean a salt-and-burn." Bobby could tell that Sam had a little better idea what the wizards were talking about, but not much.

"Until the development of the evanesco series of banishing spells was developed, the only surefire way to be rid of a malignant spirit involved a long, drawn-out ceremony. The bottle was created to keep the spirit in one place until that ceremony could be completed. We – the Order, I mean – spent several months tracking it down, but the plan went more than a little awry the first time I went after Riddle and I ended up not needing the bottle," Harry said. "This time, I'm gonna fucking finish things and get it right this time, because I am _not_ doing this a fourth time."

"I'm still lost," Bobby said.

"It's rather a long story," Harry replied. "But, if you really want to hear it –"

"It might be a good idea," Sam interrupted. "I could stand to hear it myself in a little more detail than what you told me and Dean back in July."

* * *

_7:00 pm, October 13, 2007  
West Shore Recreation Area  
Lake Oahe, South Dakota_

It was at times like these when Dean almost wished he'd taken up smoking. It would have given him something to do while he thought. As it was, he was merely lounging on the hood of the Impala, watching the colors of the sunset light up the lake and low hills on the opposite shore, tingeing a slowly approaching rainstorm's clouds in shades of gold and pink. A light wind out of the east, the same wind bringing the storm closer by degrees, blew into Dean's face.

"I don't get it, baby," Dean said, talking as much to his car as to himself. "All my life, all I've ever really seen was bad things happening to good people while assholes get all the breaks. And now… Now, I'm supposed to believe that some random _god_ spoke to me." Dean let out a low laugh. "I don't think so. This is probably like that ghost of that priest who thought he was an angel. I don't know what happened to that bow, and I don't really care. I ain't touching it again." A stronger gust of wind rippled through Dean's hair. He pulled his brown leather jacket a little tighter. "I ain't touching it again.

"I mean, it's not like I haven't come up against… well, I guess they're demi-gods. Whatever. It's not like I haven't seen things like that before. The trickster springs to mind." Dean chuckled, "Hated to waste 'im – he had a great sense of humor – but we couldn't just let him go on killin' people. And then there was that whole situation with the tulpa in Texas." Dean pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them, the heels of his boots caught on the front bumper of the Impala.

"I'll be the first to admit that there's a whole lot of freaky shit I know nothing about – it's one of the hazards of the job, I suppose. Sometimes things are easy, sometimes things get out of control, and sometimes it's stuff no one's ever come across before." Dean sighed and watched distant lightning flash in the approaching storm, the sunset tinting it shades of orange and pink. "But that bow… It could be a cursed object. I bled on the goddamned thing, so of course it'd affect me differently than it did the rest of the guys. Either that, or I am simply the least freaky of the freak brigade. Bobby's been doing shit like this for_ decades_ – so it's no surprise he could sense something from the bow. Remus and Harry both have that whole wand-thing going for them, and Sammy… Well, Sammy's Sammy. Visions, TK, and all that jazz. Me? What do I got goin' for me? I can play a mean game of straight-eight. Poker. A respectable tolerance for whiskey. I don't really have anything going for me that anyone couldn't do for themselves. So what if I heal fast? Last I checked, that wasn't all that uncommon." A tiny voice in the back of Dean's mind tried to speak up, tried to say _How do you explain a hundred and seventy-nine stitches in that gash that you got on that Hunt after Sammy left for school that healed without so much as a twinge, let alone a scar?_ Dean pointedly ignored the voice. He was good at that.

"I shoulda brought a six-pack with me," he mumbled, groping for his hip-flask and trying to remember if he'd last filled it with whiskey or holy water. Finding the undecorated silver flask in his jacket, he spun off the top. "Damn," he took a drink anyway. "Water. I think I'm going to want to get a second flask. Keep whiskey in that one." He recapped the flask and put it away.

"Excuse me?" a woman's voice interrupted Dean's quiet monologue to his car. He looked to his left. An average-height girl, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a light blue windbreaker stood about ten feet away from him. She had an expensive-looking Nikon hanging from a strap around her neck and a bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. Her medium-blonde hair was short and shaggy, likely having grown out from a punky spike haircut. She was remarkably ordinary-looking, with two exceptions – she had a lebret piercing, easily seen as the jewelry was neon yellow, and she wore a pair of vaguely cat's-eye shaped glasses with silver frames and pink lenses. "You got a light?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah."

The woman grinned, a small dimple forming in her right cheek. "Halle-fucking-lujah," she strode over to Dean, retrieving a pack of Camel menthols from her jacket pocket. "Worst string of bad luck I've had in a week. I damn well _know_ I left the house this afternoon with three lighters on me and now I can't seem to find a single one."

Dean handed her his Zippo with a little shrug, "I know how that goes." She offered the open pack of cigarettes to him. Dean shook his head, "Don't smoke."

She quirked an eyebrow and cocked her head slightly to the side. "You don't smoke, yet you carry around a thirty-dollar lighter?" She chuckled a little, "You're a mechanic, aren't you?"

"How do you figure that?" Dean supposed that if he ever had to stop Hunting, his ability to repair stuff would likely be his main way of making a living, so the woman's guess wasn't totally off the mark.

"My dad and my brother-in-law are both non-smoking mechanics, yet both of them carry lighters, too. Neither one will tell me why. I have to admit, I've always wondered." She lit her cigarette and handed the lighter back to Dean. "I don't suppose you could let me in on the secret?"

Dean pocketed the lighter with a shrug, "Fire's a tool. You can heat your key in the winter if your lock is iced over or coax a stubborn ball-point into working. It'll also melt loose ends off of the nylon thread used in most car upholstery so that it won't fray." _Not to mention the fact that it comes in handy fighting evil and putting vengeful spirits to rest. Can't do a salt-and-burn without the burn, after all._

She took a drag and laughed lightly, "I see. And here I was thinking that Dad and Ryan were closet stoners or something. I'm Frank, by the way."

"Frank?"

"Yeah, Mom and Dad didn't want to know if I was a boy or girl before I was born, so they picked a gender-neutral name. Francis. They pulled the same shit on my older sister. Her name's Kelly."

"How come you go by 'Frank' and not 'Fran'?"

Frank shrugged, "I've always been a tomboy. When I was little, I had to be wrestled into a dress, and all – both – dresses had long sleeves and were floor-length to hide the skinned knees and elbows. What about you? You got a name, or should I just call you 'dude with the kickass car'?"

Dean grinned. A compliment to his baby could always make him smile. "I'm Dean."

"Here on vacation or something?" she motioned to the Ohio plates.

"Visiting a friend."

"Oh? Who?"

"Bobby Singer."

Frank rolled her eyes, "Shoulda known. Any mechanic from out of state with a classic Chevy is bound to be visiting the local automotive Mecca. So how come you're staring at the lake and not using the last of the daylight to go pawing through the various piles of rust for spare parts?"

Dean shrugged, "Just thinking."

"Oh, is that all? You looked like you were suffering existential problems."

"Huh?"

Frank took another drag of her smoke, "Existential – in the context of existentialism, involved in or vital to the shaping of a person's self-chosen mode of existence and moral stance with respect to the rest of the world. Also known as depressing yourself on purpose, to quote a popular t-shirt."

"The fuck?"

Frank sighed, "Sorry. I suffer from eidetic memory, a low boredom threshold, and diarrhea of the mouth."

"No, I know what 'existential' means. I was just wondering why you thought so?"

"I know the look," Frank explained. "The whole 'what-the-fuck-does-all-this-really-mean' look. It had to come from somewhere, and I doubt it had anything to do with car parts."

Dean blinked, "You really are freaky-observant, aren't you?"

Frank laughed, "I'm a photographer – it's in the job description."

"That why you're out here with a storm coming?"

Frank nodded, "Yeah. I like photographing lightning."

"Why?"

"A single bolt of lightning is only around for a split-second. If I can catch it on film, I can make it last forever. A single moment in time, preserved for eternity – you can't tell me that isn't a cool thought. I suppose you could argue that all pictures are like that. But… there's something special about lightning. It's so… beautiful. Natural. Powerful."

"Not to mention dangerous."

"That too." Frank finished her cigarette and flicked the butt out into the loose gravel and dirt that made up the overlook road Dean's car was parked on. "So why come here to mull over existential issues?"

"Why not? Besides, I like the colors the sunset gives the clouds and this was the best vantage point." Dean was a little surprised at himself for admitting that. He wasn't sure if Sammy even knew how much he liked watching sunsets.

"It is beautiful up here, isn't it?" Frank agreed. "However, it's going to rain on us if we don't get going. And with it being the middle of October, I'm not hopeful that it'll be a warm rain."

"Where are you parked? I could give you a lift to your car," Dean offered.

Frank chuckled nervously, "Would you believe me if I said I hiked out here this morning? And that I didn't realize I left my cell at home until about an hour ago?"

"You really are having a bad day."

"Story of my life, actually," Frank replied, a fake smile plastered on her face. "You hungry?"

"Dinner in exchange for a ride home?"

Frank nodded, "If you're amenable."

"Hop in," Dean climbed off the hood of the Impala. Frank scurried for the passenger door and the two of them slid inside. "So where am I going?"

"You know that little trailer park at the corner of 1806 and fourteen?" Dean nodded. "The little diner across the street from that."

Dean started the car and Nazareth blared from the speakers. Frank jumped a little at the sudden noise, and Dean reached over and turned it down a little. "Sorry. Forgot I had it cranked."

"Don't worry about it – it just startled me is all."

Dean turned the car around and began heading back to the main roads. "What kind of music you like?"

Frank shrugged and dug into her backpack, coming up with a camera case. "All kinds, really. Every type of music has its place," she motioned to the radio. "I have to say I approve – classic rock in a classic car. It fits. Listening to modern music in this would be… Sacrilege. Like listening to rap in a rusted-out pickup or Mozart in a lowrider. The sad part is that you're going to have to eventually switch the tape deck for a CD player. I haven't seen a cassette for sale at a store in almost six years."

"I noticed," Dean replied. "My brother wants me to install an MP3 player. I don't think I want to do that."

"Why not?" Frank asked, taking apart her Nikon and putting it in the case. "You can get something like ten hours of music on a single CD if they're MP3s."

"I know, I know. But if I did put in an MP3 player, then my brother would think I approve of his crappy taste in music. He's hijacked the computer, so any disks made would be made by him and I'll end up being forced to listen to whiny emo-rock."

"You live with your brother?" Frank snapped the camera case closed and slid it into the backpack.

Dean nodded, "Yeah."

"You two must be close. Me and Kelly… I wish we were closer, but she's ten years older than I am. I only ever get to see her during Christmas. She took off for Chicago when she graduated high school, met Ryan, and settled immediately into a little Suzy homemaker lifestyle. Hell, I talk more with their oldest than I do with them. Charley is… Damn, now I feel old. Charley is coming up on seventeen already."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but how old are you?" Dean asked.

Frank chuckled, "Um… I'm almost positive I'm older than you."

"No way."

"Yes way, I think. How old are you?"

"I'll be twenty-nine in January."

Frank smirked. "I got you beat by three years, Dean."

"You're thirty-two?" Dean let out a low whistle. "Damn. You still look like you're only nineteen or so."

She nodded, "Scary, I know. I still get carded for my cigs if I go to a store that doesn't know me. A year ago, I was in Austin and got thrown out of a bar because they thought my ID was a fake. On the upside, if this keeps on, I'll only look forty or so when I'm eighty. All-in-all, not a bad deal." Frank turned her head and took a look at Dean. "And I just said something that upset you. Whatever it was – I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head and tried to push the sudden melancholia away. "No, don't be. It's not your fault." _I just don't like being reminded that there isn't a chance in Hell I'll get to see thirty myself._

As Dean made a left turn into the parking lot of a small diner – so like hundreds of others Dean had visited in his life that he could almost forget where he was and who he was talking to – Frank studied Dean's expression. "If you want to talk about whatever it is that's bugging you, I'll shut up and listen."

"You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you," he said, shutting the Impala off.

"Try me. You'd be surprised what I believe." At Dean's skeptical expression, Frank continued. "Look, I'm a freelance photojournalist. In the last ten years, I've been all over God's green earth. I've seen just about everything. Covered stories from the local bowling alley all the way to Afghanistan to the jungles of the Amazon basin and back. I've been shot twice – once in Afghanistan and once in South Africa – mugged four times, all in New York, and I even pissed off a shaman in Brazil and got a paralysis-dart in the neck. There's nothing you could say that I would immediately dismiss."

"This isn't normal weirdness."

Frank laughed, "Is there such a thing? Come on, I'm starving. Let's go in and get something to eat. I've got some photos I want you to see."

"Is that a pick-up line?" Dean asked with a teasing smirk.

Frank leaned across the seat and whispered in Dean's ear, "Honey, you may be adorable, but you just ain't my type." Frank bounced out of the car before Dean could reply.

Following Frank into the diner, Dean understood what she meant when she was greeted enthusiastically by a pretty brunette in a clingy pink sweater and tight jeans. She had a tag on her sweater that indicated she worked in the diner. "Frankie!" the woman gave Frank a hug. "You left your cell at home."

"I know I did. Lisa, this is Dean. Dean, Lisa. Dean gave me a lift back from West Shore. Hook him up with some food, yeah?"

Lisa gave Dean a perfunctory once-over and ignored the appreciative smile. "Thanks. You look like a real meat-and-potatoes guy. The only question that remains is coffee or cola?"

"Coffee," Dean supplied.

"Will do," Lisa said and sauntered away.

Frank hit Dean's shoulder with surprising force. "Quit leering at my girlfriend."

"Sorry," Dean said, following Frank to a two-person booth that had a good view of both the parking lot outside and the door to the kitchen. Frank opened up her backpack and pulled out a laptop computer. She plugged the power supply into an outlet that was wired into the side of the bench she was sitting on and booted it up.

"Showing off your work, hon?" Lisa reappeared with a coffee pot and two cups.

"Of course. Oh, before I forget, Danny called this morning, wanted to know if you could cover his shift next Friday."

Lisa nodded, "Think so. I'll call him later."

"Better get back to work before Mike kicks me out again," Frank smiled.

"I know. I really don't want to sit through that whole lecture again," Lisa ruffled Frank's hair and headed off to refill napkin dispensers and ketchup bottles.

"It's kinda dead in here, isn't it?" Dean commented, gesturing to the rest of the diner. They were the only customers.

Frank shrugged, "It's coming up on eight, so it's past the dinner rush, but it's not late enough for the bar crowd to start showing." The computer made a series of tones to indicate it had finished booting. Frank sipped at her coffee as she pulled up a couple of files. Angling the laptop so that Dean could see the screen, she said, "Go ahead and have a look. The first file is some of the pictures I've sold of the places I've been. The names tell the date and location. The second file is pictures I haven't sold – mainly because… Well, you'll see."

Dean pulled the computer around completely and glanced through the first file. It was a little odd, because he'd seen some of the photos before in magazines and newspapers. "You're part of the Associated Press?"

Frank nodded, "Guilty as charged. Lemme guess, you know some of those pics?"

"Yeah. This one in particular," Dean tilted the computer to show her which one he meant.

"Ah, yeah. Everyone knows that photo. If I'd known how popular an image it would become, I would have asked for more money." The photo was a well-known image of the wreckage of the World Trade Center on 9-11. "It was sheer dumb luck that I was in New York that day. My flight had been cancelled because some moronic son of a bitch got caught trying to smuggle a kilo of cocaine on board – I was supposed to be on my way to Australia. The next flight to Sydney wasn't for another three days, so I thought I'd look up one of my old college buddies. I was on my way to his loft when the planes hit."

"Damn," Dean whispered and went back to looking through the photos. He finished up the first file and started in on the second. There were a _lot_ of images of storms. The one he liked the best was a photo of a bolt of lightning behind a particularly vivid rainbow. He had just managed to get into photos of something other than the weather when food arrived. He looked to his plate then up at Lisa and back. "Dude… You rock."

"I'm just good at what I do," Lisa replied. "Give a holler if you need anything."

"Will do," Dean said, digging into his onion-slathered steak and gravy-swamped mashed potatoes. There wasn't a speck of anything green on his plate.

"It never fails," Frank commented around a mouthful of fried pickle spear. "Bring a guy here and they immediately fall for Lisa."

Dean shrugged noncommittally and went back to browsing through Frank's photos between bites of his dinner. Now that he'd passed the collection of lightning, he went a little slower. Frank had pictures from all around the world. Clicking slowly through them, he saw that her claim of having seen the weirdest of the weird wasn't unsubstantiated. She had several photos of things Dean knew more about than he cared to recall. There were photos of ghosts, orbs, and auras. Unexplained shadows. People with the all-too-familiar white retinal flare, instead of the normal red. He was nearly done with his meal when he came across a series of photos dated from just over a year and a half earlier. The pictures were labeled as being from Afghanistan and showed a lanky black man lifting a rolled-over jeep off another soldier.

"What is it?" Frank asked, not liking the expression on Dean's face.

"I know that bastard," he replied, turning the computer so that Frank could see what he was looking at.

"Jake Talley? He was one of the soldiers in the unit I traveled with in Afghanistan. Nice kid, too."

Dean snorted, "He isn't _that_ nice."

Frank frowned and finished off the last two bites of her burger and pickles. "What do you mean?"

Dean swallowed the last of his potatoes and washed it down with the mostly cold coffee. "You've seen some weird-ass shit, I get that, really, I do. But…"

"Don't tell me I won't believe you or else I'll kick your ass."

"You would, too, wouldn't you?" Dean smiled. He was really starting to like Frank.

"Come on, Dean. Everyone needs someone to dump on every now and then. Look at it this way – I don't really know you. You don't really know me. If you come across as sounding like a nut, we never have to see each other again."

Dean had to admit, she had a point. "Okay. You get your girl to get us some more coffee and I'll see how insane I can make you think I am."

* * *

_10:12 pm, October 13, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

"And so, after months of planning out what we'd thought was every possible way it could play out, the plan got fucked to Hell. On the second-to-last day of the winter holidays, Draco Malfoy proved me, Hermione, and Ron right. We _shouldn't_ have trusted the little ferret's claims to want to break from his family's support of Riddle. I didn't find this out until just before I left Europe, but he'd been feeding information to the Death Eaters about Order plans. That bastard was responsible for setting up the ambush that killed Ron and thirteen other members of the Light." Remus reached over and rested a supporting hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry covered the werewolf's hand with his own. "Hermione lost it. Blamed me for what happened to Ron."

"That hardly seems fair," Sam commented.

"Fair or not, it didn't much matter. Part of the issue was that, ninety percent of the time, when witches and wizards fall in love, their magic binds them together. She'd just lost Ron and a big part of herself went with him. She needed someone to blame and I was handy. In all honesty, I blamed myself for a long time, too." Harry closed his eyes and swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in his throat, willing away the echoing remains of the emotions of the times he was explaining. "After classes were reinstated, just about the only person who still really talked to me was Ginny."

"She's Ron's little sister, right?" Sam asked.

Harry nodded, "Yeah…"

"Bull," Bobby cut in. "She was more than that."

Harry sighed and smiled a bittersweet smile, "You are far too perceptive for my peace of mind, Bobby, but you're right. Ginny was my girlfriend. At the time, we all thought that Draco had been one of the casualties of the ambush – that his father had kidnapped him – so when he showed up when I was talking with Ginny at the top of the Astronomy tower we weren't as vigilant as we should have been. He caught us by complete surprise. Disarmed us both, and had us bound and silenced before we could retaliate. He cursed Ginny… Used the fucking cruciatus. All it does is cause pain. Total, pure pain. He held it on her for too long. It broke her mind." Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, "It broke her mind and made me angry. I took off that night. Did all but paint a fucking target on my head. Got myself taken by the Death Eaters and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Which is Harry's way of saying that he doesn't recall the details of what happened after," Remus supplied. "Not that I blame him any. From the stories I've heard, any reasonably sane person would have blocked most of what happened from their conscious memories. We didn't know for sure that Voldemort hadn't been completely destroyed that night because he pulled the same disappearing trick he'd done the first time Harry broke his power. It wasn't until about three years ago that it became obvious, but by then Harry had fallen off the map."

"So, you're going to go back and finish things for good this time," Bobby said.

Harry nodded grimly. "I will. I really don't want to spend the rest of my life fighting this prick every ten years."

"I don't blame you."

"Don't blame who for what?" Dean asked, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Harry and Remus were just filling us in on what happened before he left Europe," Sam replied. _Dean's looking better than he did when he left. I hope his drive helped him sort things out._

Dean nodded – he'd gotten a fuller explanation than Sam had when they first met Harry. "So, what's the plan, Stan?"

Harry shrugged, "Shoot first, ask questions later?"

Dean grinned, "I like the sound of that."

Sam looked at Bobby as though to say, 'What did I get myself into?' and 'See what I have to put up with?' Bobby merely grinned and shook his head a little. Sam interpreted the motion to mean, 'They're your brother and friend – better you than me.'

"I think," Remus said, taking a look at his pocket watch, "that we might want to consider turning in a little early. It's been a very long couple of days."

* * *

_8:43 am, October 14, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

"Dean!" Bobby yelled from the kitchen, "Come get this damn bow off my table!"

"Dude! Gimme a minute!" the reply from the bathroom on the second story was slightly muted by the sound of the shower running.

"You have any flour, Bobby?" Harry asked, rummaging around in the cabinets.

"Um… I have no idea. Whatever I got, it's all in there," he gestured in a vague motion to the cabinets over the stove.

Remus chuckled from the safety of the doorway, "You may as well give up, Bobby. When Harry gets it in his head to cook, all you can really do is get out of his way. Or, you could show me to the nearest grocer."

"Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon… Bobby, where the bloody hell is your cinnamon?" Harry grumbled, his head hidden by a cupboard door.

"Do I look like I keep cinnamon on hand?" Bobby retorted.

"Hell," Harry slammed the cupboard door shut. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes." He spun on his heel and disappeared with a flat _crack_.

"While he's gone, you might want to make your coffee. When he gets back, he'll likely hex you if you get in his way," Remus' tone was light, but Bobby could tell he wasn't joking.

* * *

**A/N2:** I know this chapter really doesn't further the plot all that much, but exposition and set-up have to happen sometime. With luck, I'll be able to get one more chapter posted before Nano's over with, then I will have achieved the stated goal of 50K words in a single story for the month (I had the first 3K of this written before the first, and though I've written about 100K words in other stories – all original stuff, not fanfic – during the month, this one is the closest to actually reaching the Nano goal). 

Reviews are the beat to which I write.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Okay, so I still have after-images of Thanksgiving on the brain, hence the first scene. Besides, I got to write a line I've always wanted to include in a story. What line? Here's a hint: it's about IHOP.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_10:10 am, October 14, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

Breakfast. Home-cooked honest-to-God _breakfast_. With muffins and bacon and sausage and ham and, okay so the fried tomatoes, mushrooms, and peppers were a little weird, but who cared? There were _two _types of pancakes – blueberry and regular – and four flavors of syrup, powdered sugar, and… Was that _marmalade_? Toast dripping with real butter. A massive bowlful of strawberries and sliced peaches and blueberries swimming in thick cream. Mounds of fluffy scrambled eggs topped with melted cheddar. A plate of scones and a platter of hash browns. The air thick with sugar and grease and yeast and the smell of strong coffee and the lighter taint of something vaguely tea-like.

Sam didn't normally think with his stomach – that was more of a Dean-thing – but he honestly agreed with his stomach's initial assessment: Heaven. His second coherent thought of the morning was _Who robbed the IHOP?_ and then someone put a slightly chipped coffee mug in his hands and the thought turned to _Yeah, definitely heaven._ After some of the blessedly strong liquid caffeine – and Dean had to have been the one to put the mug together, it had just the right amounts of cream and sugar – had managed to trip the 'awake' button in his mind, Sam looked around. It was a somewhat surreal sight. _I don't think Bobby's kitchen has _ever_ seen this much food._ There was enough laid out on the table to feed a small army – or to actually sate Dean, whichever came first.

Harry noticed the flicker of intelligence return to Sam's sleep-addled eyes and handed him a plate and a fork. "Tuck in, before the warming charms wear off."

Sam didn't need to be told twice. He snagged some ham, three blueberry pancakes, and a couple of sausages. In the manner of all men who spend far too long on the road eating whatever could be snagged from a drive-thru or nuked half to death in a mini-mart, he wolfed down the first few bites. After realizing that it was far tastier than anything else could remember at the moment, he slowed down and actually chewed. There was an underlying flavor to everything and somehow, Sam just _knew_ there wouldn't be the remains of a box-mix or an empty can to be found in the trash. If pressed, Sam might have labeled the flavor as 'homey', but then again, maybe not. It wasn't as though he had a lifetime of home-cooked meals sense-memory to draw on. He just knew that whatever that underlying taste was, he _liked_ it; some weird-but-not subtlety that might have just been a barely-perceptible lack of chemical preservatives. He cast a questioning glance at his brother, who shrugged and nodded in Harry's direction. "You did this?" he asked the shorter Hunter, blatant surprise etched in his expression.

Harry swallowed a bite of scone and washed it down with a sip of coffee. "I just got sick of take-out and donuts. Figured since I was in the same place as a kitchen at the same time as a meal, I'd make something that didn't taste of diesel or smoke and that had a bit more flavor than cheese and crackers." He grinned, "I'm probably the only person on the planet who would rather eat his own cooking than go to a restaurant if given half a chance."

Sam, whose cooking abilities were somewhat limited to the fact that he knew the best microwave settings for TV dinners versus frozen pizza and the fact that he could make ramen in a coffee pot, was a little taken aback. It wasn't all that often one came across a Hunter who could cook – barbecue, yes, actually cook on a stove, no. _In fact, in a life of weird, this has to be the weirdest thing ever._ Then his gaze landed on Bobby's gas range in the corner. _Strike that – _that_ is the weirdest thing ever. I didn't know the stove was supposed to be white._

A comfortable silence descended on the kitchen, interrupted only by a 'pass the toast' here and an 'any muffins left' there, and the soft clink of silverware on plates and punctuated by an occasional belch. A minor war between Remus and Bobby broke out over the last sausage link, but Harry broke it up by handing the werewolf the last three strips of crunchy bacon. By the time Sam scooped the last of the fruit-and-cream out of the big bowl, his initial assessment of the food being not just heavenly but excessive had been proved patiently false. Five single men who, for all intents and purposes, lived on take-out and beer _could_ and _would_ demolish enough food to sustain a third-world country for a week when faced with the option. Especially if it had literally been _years_ since their last home-cooked meals.

"Damn, Harry," Bobby said, pushing his plate away, "if you repay sleepin' on that lumpy old sofa with _this_, it kinda makes me wish I'd've given ya the spare bedroom."

Without missing a beat, Harry replied, "No, this was just payment in advance for what I'm going to do to your fireplace."

"What?"

Harry smiled, "Don't worry – who knows? You might like the changes. Firstly, though… Dean? Phone?"

Dean tossed Harry his cell, "Who're ya calling?"

"Leanne," Harry said, scrolling through Dean's list of contacts. "Remus? You wanna clean the mess up?" Harry hit the send button and wandered out the back door.

"What's he gonna do to my fireplace?" Bobby was still stuck a couple of sentences behind in the conversation, and Sam really couldn't blame him. He was feeling a little sluggish from all the food, too.

Remus retrieved his wand and started banishing crumbs and the sticky remains of syrup. "Just a guess, but I'd wager he's planning on connecting it to the Floo Network. To do that, he'll need to make it somewhat bigger than it currently is. Don't fret too much about it, it won't damage the structural integrity of the house any."

"What's a Floo network?" Dean asked.

"It's something of a cross between a telephone and a dedicated multi-destinational portkey," Remus moved on from the crumbs and syrup to the dishes themselves, levitating them to the sink. "You can use it solely for communication or you can use it for travel. It requires that there be another fireplace connected to the network on the receiving end. In either case, the fireplace in your lounge will need to be made somewhat larger. As it is, I don't think even Harry could climb into it without trouble."

Bobby's eyes narrowed in thought, "A few questions. First, isn't climbing into fire generally a bad idea?"

Remus chuckled, "Yes. However, the fire in an active floo won't burn. Tickles a little if you linger too long, but it doesn't burn."

"How do you keep people from just marching through whenever they want?"

"A floo can be disconnected from the network, rather like unplugging a telephone. A call can't go through if there's nothing there with which to connect," Remus hit the stack of dishes with a couple of heavy-duty cleaning charms before he began putting them back into the cupboard above the sink.

"Can anyone use them or is it just a wizard-thing?"

"It takes a wizard to set the connection up, but a floo can be used by anyone who knows how," Remus replied, putting away the last of the plates and turning his attention to the silverware.

At that moment, Harry came back into the kitchen. He tossed the cell back to Dean, then turned to Remus. "Hit me."

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'hit me'."

"Why?"

Harry sighed, "Because I'm a bloody idiot. I told Leanne what we were going to do, and she's trying to talk me into accepting a fucking contingent of the USMF. I should bloody well know fucking better than to tell her the truth beforehand."

"'USMF'?" Sam asked.

"United States Mage Force – the magical branch of the US military," Remus explained. "You do realize, Harry, that Albus tried to gain USMF support the first two times we went through this, don't you?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Remus, the absolute _last_ fucking thing we need this time around is a bunch of trigger-happy Yanks," he grimaced a little, suddenly remembering where he was. "Sorry, no offense," he said to Dean, Sam, and Bobby.

"None taken," Sam replied.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, "If we do it right, I've already got all the back-up I'll need."

"It wouldn't hurt to request that they be kept on alert, though – just in case," Remus returned to the table and absently refilled his mug with tea.

"I'll take it under advisement. I don't think it's a particularly sound idea. I plan on heading back without letting anyone – aside from Minerva – know. And I'm only telling _her_ because we need that bottle."

* * *

_2:32 pm, October 14, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

While Remus and Harry did odd… things to his fireplace, Dean and Sam dragged Bobby outside to show the older Hunter a new Deanvention™. Specifically, Dean's new handgun. He'd seen it briefly before, but hadn't known what to make of it and more pressing issues had kept him from asking. Now, though, the two Winchesters and Bobby were putting the new weapon through its paces. The three of them discovered that the energy burst the gun put out spiked off the charts on an EMF and created a sound that hovered on the most extreme upper edge of hearing on EVP. The bolt could blast a hole three feet wide and a full foot deep in the ground, apparently vaporized small projectiles, and put very large holes in bigger ones. An accidental appearance of a crow in the wrong place at the wrong time showed that the gun's effect on living things didn't change much, leaving only the faint smell of charred feathers lingering in the air.

They fired the gun nearly a hundred times before they figured that it probably didn't need 'reloading'.

Bobby asked how Dean had constructed it which had lead to Dean walking Bobby and Sam through the process, using the last of the materials he'd ordered in Louisiana to make three more of the guns. While the other two were busy loading clips with bullet-sized polished pieces of smoky quartz and wedging bars of cobalt around them, Dean recalled that clear quartz was supposedly used for healing. After seeing what the gun could do, it made him wonder what would happen if he switched out clear quartz for the smoky and if he would have to use a different wood for the dowel. _Not in a gun, though_, he thought and almost laughed out loud at the mental picture he had of walking up to a hurt someone and aiming a gun at them, 'Hold still and let me heal you'. "Flashlight, maybe…" he muttered.

"What?" Sam asked, looking up from what he was doing.

Dean shook his head, "Nothing. After you're done with this part, you need to melt the cobalt down inside the clip."

By the time Bobby, Dean, and Sam had finished crafting the three new guns, Harry and Remus were finished working their mojo on the fireplace and everyone was ready to take a break, even if they were all still working on breakfast and weren't particularly hungry. Beers were passed around and everyone found places to perch or stretch out in the lounge. It had been chilly and raining off-and-on all day. Bobby's fireplace had been expanded to take up most of the wall and gave off a pleasant amount of heat.

"Well, that part's done," Harry sighed, focused on the flames in the hearth, sitting on the floor with his back leaning against the sofa. "The next step would be to run a test-floo, just to make sure it's working properly."

"Later," Remus replied from the opposite end of the couch, looking almost as weary as Harry.

"Remus?" Dean asked from where he was half-sitting on the arm of the sofa, next to Sam and above Harry.

"Hmm?"

"How come what I did with my gun hadn't been done before? 'Cause, well… It just seems so simple."

Remus closed his eyes, "I'm not entirely sure. Mostly, it has to do with the fact that only someone who was familiar with muggle firearms and how environmental magic worked would even think of it. Part of the reason, I'm sure, is that cobalt's function with regards to magic was only discovered in the early 1930s, and before wizardkind could do much with the knowledge, we had to deal with the muggle war with Hitler and our own problems with a Dark wizard by the name of Grindelwald. We managed to get wireless sets figured out before Voldemort became a problem. As far as other countries are concerned, I think the US and most of the Far East were too busy tinkering with how magic and computer technology interacted to do something as low-tech as your gun."

"Knowledge meets opportunity just hadn't happened, in other words."

Remus nodded. "Spot-on."

The test-floo of the new connection – to Leanne's Manhattan apartment – went off without a hitch, and by the time sunset rolled around everyone was involved in their own little projects. Sam and Bobby, working under Remus' direction, were researching a list of mostly-Latin spells that Remus had neatly printed on a slip of paper. Remus had shown them how to work Harry's book-trunk; Sam was a little envious of the trunk – all he had to do was open it and state the name of the book, an author's name, or a subject keyword and the appropriate books popped out and resized themselves. Harry had received a new cell from Leanne, and after switching out the sim-card, had settled into Bobby's recliner with a battered spiral notebook and a pencil, sometimes muttering things under his breath, sometimes staring into the fireplace like it held the meaning to life. Dean had borrowed Harry's computer and was trying to simultaneously research the possibility of making a new addition to the first aid kit and figure out more about that damn bow.

* * *

_October 15 – 20, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

The next five days passed quietly at Bobby's house. Much research was done on the various options and methods available to trap or lure Voldemort's spirit into a vulnerable position. Most of the information uncovered was totally useless, as they didn't know if Voldemort was possessing someone or not, but, as Harry kept saying, it never hurt to keep their options open.

Sam found innumerable bits and pieces of information that had nothing to do with trapping spirits, yet were unduly fascinating nonetheless because these snippets of facts and magic unearthed had to do with his irritating psychic 'gifts' and how to control them.

Harry cooked almost every day, though not quite to the excess of the first morning. After noticing what kept catching Sam's attention, Harry spent a little time with the Winchester going over how to focus and meditate. Sam learned that Harry had a pretty strong gift for Self-Healing and a slight – admittedly _very_ slight – talent with the Mind Magics of Occlumency/Legilimency; which was why using said talent always left him with a splitting headache.

Dean managed to figure out a way to skew what he'd done with the gun into something which would heal instead of harm… or so he hoped. He hadn't tested it out yet, mainly because he didn't want to use it on a person, but couldn't bring himself to purposefully hurt the local wildlife. _I'd make a lousy research scientist_, he realized – after all, it was one thing to kill something that needed killing, but to hurt something that hadn't done anything to deserve it, even if he intended to heal it directly afterwards? That just made his gut twist uncomfortably, and so the doctored Maglight went unused. With his main distraction out of the way, there wasn't much else for him to do but research the bow, and so he joined Sam, Remus, Bobby, and Harry in leafing through books that were probably old enough to have acquired the term 'relic' as a descriptor, rather than just 'antique'.

It was late evening on the twentieth when Harry announced that they were probably about as rested and researched as they could get. Further research would have to wait until they found out exactly what was waiting for them in Europe. When asked, Bobby verified that he would not be accompanying them to the UK – he had several leads on Hunts that needed following. There were still demons that needed catching, after all. He did agree that Dean could leave the Impala at the salvage yard until they returned. Dean didn't much like the thought of leaving his car behind, but knew it was probably for the best – she wasn't precisely street-legal for a country that drove on the wrong side of the road, now was she? Besides, Dean was relatively certain that they'd be traveling either by portkey or floo for the most part. At least, that's what he'd gleaned from fragments of conversation with Harry and Remus.

So, the men bade each other a good night one last time and shuffled off to sleep. The next day was going to be long and they all knew it.

* * *

**A/N2:** I know, I know, this chapter is about half the length it should be. However, it signals my achievement of the Nano goal. Three cheers for me! 

(clears throat a little self-consciously)

Um… yeah. There are also two other reasons why it's a little short – the first one being that this marks a stylistic break in the storyline. You will have noticed, I'm sure, that previously I started each chapter segment off with a date, time, and location. This is going to become a bit more fluid in the upcoming chapters. The second reason is that I wanted to start Sam and Dean's introduction to the wizarding world of the UK off in a new chapter. See? It makes sense and you don't even have to squint hard to see it.

Reviews are love.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Thus far in this series, all the places I've written about are places I've at least visited, and as such can describe rather well. Now, however, I'm writing about places I've never been to, and so I'll probably get some things wrong – regardless of the copious amounts of research I do. So, I'm asking that y'all let me know when I make a mistake, so I can fix it.

According to the HP Lexicon, 12 Grimmauld Place is somewhere north of Camden Town, just slightly east of Regents Park. I went with that information – if anyone else has a better idea as to where it is, tell me.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Arriving in the UK_

Remus had gone through the floo first. Harry then passed their things through the connection and went over how to use the fireplace for travel one last time. "Speak _very _clearly, keep your elbows tucked in, don't open your mouth, and try not to focus – you'll just get dizzy." Dean went next, followed closely by Sam. Both of the Hunters managed to knock their heads on the mantle of Remus' fireplace when they arrived, but that was nothing next to Harry's arrival. The floo practically spat Harry out in a cloud of ash and dust, much to Remus' amusement.

"Still having issues with the network, Harry?"

Harry brushed the ash off his clothes and shot a glare at the werewolf. "Stow it, Remus. Short trips aren't a problem. These long ones… Hell, the damn network hates me."

"If you can apparate any distance," Dean said, "how come you used the fireplace?"

"International apparation triggers an alert at the Ministry, flooing doesn't," Remus explained. "And we don't want them to know Harry's here."

"Understatement," Harry growled.

"On the off chance I'm questioned about it, all I'm going to say is that I went to the US for some research and returned today. However, I doubt anyone will care. I tend to receive large quantities of floo-parcels from around the world and am somewhat notorious for traveling unexpectedly."

"Yeah, you mentioned you write?" Sam asked, looking around the room in which they'd emerged. It was done in creamy yellows and browns – a living room, sure, but definitely a bachelor's living room, despite the lack of a television._ The only thing that's missing is a pair of mounted antlers above the fireplace._

Remus nodded, sporting a wry little grin. "Sure do. Since the Werewolf Control Act was passed, it's hard to find a decent-paying job. So, I write."

Harry finished cleaning up the mess he'd made of the hearth rug and tucked his wand back up his sleeve, "You've never said _what_ you write, Remus. Care to share with the class?"

Remus chuckled, "If you insist… I write fantasy and horror stories for the muggle market. What's particularly funny is that most of the plotlines I use are things that really happened."

"You don't get into trouble with the Ministry for that?"

Remus shook his head, "Nope. I change enough of the hard facts that it doesn't qualify as a breach of the Secrecy Laws. It didn't keep them from trying to prosecute after my first book, mind, but I have an excellent legal representative." Changing the subject, Remus picked up a couple of the Winchesters' bags. "And now for the knut-tour."

It was somewhat surreal for Harry, tagging along behind Dean and Sam, who were following Remus. The majority of the house was nothing at all like he remembered; the dark shadows had been ruthlessly scrubbed away or painted over. The most notable differences were the lack of house-elf heads in the hall, the large window that had replaced the bit of wall where the portrait of Mrs. Black had hung, and the sheer amount of light streaming into each and every room. He'd noticed that the old troll-leg umbrella stand was still in the hall next to the front door, and had to wonder at why it remained when so much of the house's macabre décor had been disposed of.

Remus led them up to the second floor, which was vastly different from the narrow corridor and rows of tiny rooms Harry remembered. The staircase emerged into a large open area, pillars replacing load-bearing walls. There was some gym-equipment at the far end of the room, along with a couple of dueling-dummies. The floor circling the sparring area had set-spells carved into the floor, making sure that an errant curse or hex wouldn't harm anything outside the circle. Occupying the near end of the long room, there was a large, horseshoe-shaped desk, piled high with parchment, typing paper, a couple of books, and an old-fashioned typewriter. More books were packed into an L of floor-to-ceiling bookcases behind the desk. The final quadrant of the room was devoted to a couple of squashily-comfortable-looking low, blue sofas facing a medium-sized television. A low rack of shelves near the television held numerous DVD cases.

The staircase at the opposite end of the room lead up to the third floor of the house, where more remodeling was evident; it used to house numerous small bedrooms, but had been completely reworked into three rooms of identical size, each with their own bathroom. Remus pointed out which of the rooms was his, and directed Sam and Dean to the one that had its door across the end of the short hallway. "Fred and George lived here for a few years after they got out of school. I didn't change much about their room after they left – other than patching the blast-holes in the walls and carpet – so it's still got two beds. You don't mind sharing, I trust?" Dean and Sam both shrugged a little and shook their heads. In all honesty, they'd rather share a room if at all possible – it made it easier to keep an eye on each other. Harry got the last room by default.

Once his three guests were settled, Remus led them down to the kitchen and rummaged about making tea. Harry spent some time going through the cupboards and icebox, composing a mental shopping list. In large capitals, heading the list was COFFEE.

"Now that we're here, who do we talk to first?" Sam asked, accepting a cup of tea even as he wished it was coffee.

"Snape, I'd imagine," Harry replied. "You floo him, tell him we were coming today?" he asked Remus.

Remus nodded, "I did. He should be here at about five or so." He glanced at the clock – it was half-past four.

As promised, a relentless knock – somewhat muffled by the distance from the door – sounded at precisely five o'clock. Remus disappeared to answer it. Less than a two full minutes later, both he and Snape entered the kitchen; Remus carrying an empty goblet and sporting an expression that indicated he'd just drank something foul. "Still can't get it to taste better, Snape?" Harry said.

"The effect of the potion is far more important than it palatability, Potter," Snape replied with the weary tone that said he'd made that statement far too many times for his liking. "Shall we get on with this? I don't have innumerable hours to waste."

Remus summoned a quill and an empty roll of parchment. "Whenever you're ready, Severus."

* * *

The day after Snape had given them what information he had, Dean woke to the sound of Sam singing in the shower. Dean winced and wondered for the umpteenth time just how Sam had managed to be completely tone-deaf when both he and their dad could sing. Their mom, too, if what their dad had said was right. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table between the beds, but it was singularly unhelpful – it said, 'time to rise and shine'. His watch was likewise unhelpful simply because he couldn't remember which time-zone he'd last had it set for and he doubted it really was five o'clock: there was too much light for it to be morning and the angle was all wrong for it to be five at night. He was done sleeping, regardless of the time, and so he stretched. Something popped between his shoulder blades with a satisfying _crunch_. 

He'd had his shower the night before, so he dug through his duffel and came up with a black t-shirt, his frayed jeans, and his green button-down. After locating two socks that might have been pairs, he dressed and pounded on the bathroom door. "Hurry it up, Sam!"

When Sam finally emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed, he was still humming what Dean was pretty sure might have been _The Hand That Feeds_ by Nine Inch Nails, but wasn't totally sure. "You know," Dean said, "I never really pegged you for a metal fan, Sammy."

Sam grinned, "Not metal. Dude, when we get home, can we _please_ update the stereo in the car? 'Cause I've had it with your tape collection. Hell, I'll even burn them all to CD if you'll just let me pick the music once in a while."

"You know, you're the second person this week who's told me to ditch the tape-deck."

"Oh? Who was the first? I can't imagine Bobby'd care all that much."

Dean shook his head, "No, not Bobby. Chick by the name of Frank. Gave her a lift home the other day, when I went for that drive." He ducked into the bathroom before Sam could reply.

* * *

"I've just got somewhere I need to be," Harry said, staring out the window at the softly falling rain. "It's really none of your business, Remus." 

"I know where you plan to go, Harry. Honestly? I can't blame you for wanting to go, but it's a risk we can't afford to take." Remus' tone of voice was bordering on irate, but hadn't quite crossed the line just yet.

"Fuck you, Remus. I'm going, and you're not going to stop me," Harry wasn't yelling. His voice was level, conversational even. But there was a glint in his eyes that belied just how angry and determined he really was.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs at the other end of the room. Sam, following Dean. "…and then I don't know," Dean was saying. "What she said, it just…" he trailed off and both the Winchesters halted at the bottom of the steps. "Are we interrupting something?"

"No," Harry said at the same moment Remus replied with, "Yes."

"O-kay…" Sam exchanged a glance with his brother. "What's up?"

"Harry's bound and determined to get himself caught, that's what," Remus snapped.

If Sam hadn't been on the other side of the room from Remus, he would have been tempted to take a step back – such was the thinly-veiled anger in the werewolf's voice. "How's that?"

"I'm going to visit someone," Harry stated, still staring out the window.

"I hate to say this, but Wolfy's got a point. Didn't you say it yourself that you didn't want people to know you were here?" Dean took a couple of steps in Harry's direction, "That you're somewhat conspicuous –" and stopped short when Harry turned from the window.

The expression on Harry's face was one Dean had seen before. Naked loss, grief. He could remember seeing the expression on his dad's face from time to time; more recently, Dean could see Sam's face wearing the expression like a too-small shirt. Hell, if he were totally honest with himself, he'd worn it a time or two as well. This wasn't normal grief, something to be sat through and talked about and then tucked away as though it had never been. This grief was too big, it said _my world has shattered_ and _I'm walking a thin edge here_; it was a grief that didn't heal, that_ couldn't_ heal. Dean took this all in and blinked. "Sammy, why don't you go with Harry," it wasn't a question. "I need to talk to Remus."

Sam knew there was very little that could change Dean's mind when he had that tone, and so nodded, "Sure, Dean. Come on, Harry." He strode across the open room and lightly steered Harry down the stairs.

Dean's gaze shifted from following Harry and Sam to the werewolf after the other two were out of sight. He waited until he heard the distant sound of a door closing before talking. "Want to tell me just what the hell is going on?"

"You shouldn't have let him go," Remus sighed, slouching into a world-weary stoop.

"You're trying to protect him, I get that, really I do. But what are you trying to protect him from, Remus? He's had a fucking harder life than me and Sam put together – and trust me, that's saying something." Dean stayed where he was, standing next to a pillar with his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves on his olive-green button-down rolled to the elbows.

"He wants to go see Ginny… It's a bad idea," Remus sighed. "She… she isn't looking good these days."

"She's still alive?" Dean said in surprise. From the way Harry had talked about her – from the little he had talked about her – Dean had assumed the girl had been killed.

Remus nodded tiredly. "She is, though I believe it would have been kinder to all concerned had she not survived the curse."

"Why don't you want Harry to see her?"

"I'm afraid for him – oh, not that he'll get caught. Not that, though that's what I told him. Merlin knows, Harry can get into and out of the most secure places on the planet without being seen. It's just that the last time he saw her…" Remus trailed off and took a steadying breath. "The last time he saw her was the night she was cursed.

"He took off after calling for help and we didn't know where he'd gone until Snape brought us the information that he'd gotten himself taken directly to Voldemort – nearly a full twenty hours after the boy had disappeared. It was chaotic, Snape only had moments to tell us – the Order, I mean – what was going on before he had to return. Sadly, I was of no use to help the Order try to get him back. It was a full moon that night."

Dean crossed the distance between himself and Remus. "You think he was aiming to lose that night, don't you?"

Remus nodded, "I think so. His best mate, Ron, had been killed less than a week earlier. His other best mate was blaming him for it. He'd just watched Ginny be tortured beyond any mediwitch's power to heal. I'm sure he was going to kill Voldemort, but I doubt he thought he'd survive the encounter."

Dean fished his flask out of his left hip pocket and unscrewed the cap. He took a swallow and offered it to Remus. Remus shook his head and Dean replaced the flask of whiskey back where he'd gotten it. "Look, I know I didn't know him back then, but I doubt he's the same kid he used to be. Let him do whatever he thinks he has to do. Maybe it'll help."

"I hope so, Dean. I truly do hope so."

* * *

Sam and Harry paused by the front door long enough to pull on their respective jackets and to grab a couple of umbrellas out of the stand. Once they'd exited the house, Sam asked, "So… Where are we going?" 

"Saint Mungo's," Harry said, his voice was low enough that Sam had difficulty hearing it over the sounds of London and the soft pinging of the rain on rooftops and cement. Sam wasn't sure what a 'Saint Mungo's' was, only that it sounded suspiciously like either a church, cemetery, or hospital. Given that Harry had said he wanted to go see 'someone', Sam couldn't narrow it down any further.

Following Harry down Grimmauld Place to where it intersected with a slightly busier street, Harry hailed a taxi. He instructed the driver to take them to the nearest ATM first, and then to an address Sam didn't catch. Using the cash he'd gotten from the ATM to pay for the cab ride, Harry and Sam got out of the taxi in front of an old department store that had a sign which read 'Closed for Refurbishment'. Harry pulled Sam away from the large, dusty window behind which a single mannequin wearing a striped polyester dress stood and into a nearby alleyway that was narrow enough Sam could reach out and touch both buildings on either side. Harry checked to make sure the alley was deserted before pulling out his wand. "Hold still," he said and aimed at Sam.

A light breeze ruffled Sam's hair. "What did you do?"

"Hang on a mo'," Harry replied, wiping a thick layer of grime off of a cracked windowpane. Using the glass as a mirror, he cast a couple of spells on himself, subtly changing his face. The most drastic changes were done to his hair and eyes. The hair was now a dark reddish color, the eyes hazel. Harry examined his work and nodded in satisfaction. "That'll do, I think." He turned to face Sam. "Whatever you do, don't say anything."

"Why not?" Sam asked, noticing that Harry had charmed his hair to be the same shade of dark red as a lock of it fell into his field of vision.

"Because you quite obviously _aren't_ British once you start to speak," Harry explained. "I'm not sure if you remember or not, but I_ can't be seen_. If I'm recognized, then I'm as good as dead. Your American accent would be enough to call attention to us, the kind of attention that will have no trouble seeing through these glamours. So, do me a favor and keep quiet." Harry smoothed his bangs down over his scar and led them back to the dusty window of the closed department store.

Since it was past the lunch hour and still raining, the street was mostly deserted. Sam could see another umbrella-armed person meandering up the sidewalk on the other side of the road, but no one was in sight on their side. Harry spoke to the mannequin in the window, "Andrew and Omegus Prewitt to see Ginerva Weasley."

The mannequin nodded, much to Sam's surprise, and Harry grabbed Sam's sleeve and pulled him through the window. There was no resistance, no breaking of glass, nothing to indicate that they'd just done something that should be against all laws of physics, just two steps forward and suddenly they were in a place Sam could have identified with his eyes shut. It was a hospital emergency waiting area. Regardless of the fact that it looked nothing at all like the innumerable ERs he had visited over the years, and the fact that the people waiting for help all looked like various extras from a poorly-done fantasy movie, _Is that man sporting tentacles?_, it still felt the same, still _felt_ like all things hospital.

Sam dragged his attention back to Harry, who was now talking with a harried-looking woman at the reception desk. He stepped up next to him and caught the end of what the woman was saying, "…Thickey Ward, fourth level. Visitor's tearoom and the gift shop are on the fifth. Visiting hours are until six."

"Thanks," Harry said and led Sam out of the waiting area, to a couple of archaic-looking elevators, mumbling under his breath. Sam didn't hear all of what he said, only bits and pieces; 'already knew that', 'stupid fucking Ministry', 'never wanted to come back', and 'it wasn't supposed to be this way' among the harder-to-hear ramblings.

The elevator _dinged_ to a stop on the fifth floor of the hospital and Sam followed Harry to the gift shop. Most of the shop was packed with candies and stuffed animals, but one entire wall held nothing but cut flowers and the makings of bouquets. A short elderly woman sat at the counter in front of the wall of flora, doing a crossword puzzle. She looked up at Harry and smiled, "How can I help you, youngling?"

Harry cleared his throat and stepped up to the counter. "I'd like a bouquet, please. Wormwood, two white carnations. A single pink and white rose. Red chrysanthemum. Um… Mistletoe and forget-me-nots. Oh, and some purple hyacinth."

The woman smiled, "If you love her as much as your bouquet says, I'm sure the hyacinth is unneeded."

"Humor me," Harry replied. The woman nodded and wrote down the flowers Harry had requested. "And for you?" the woman asked Sam. Sam smiled a little and shook his head. The bouquet didn't take long for the woman to make. Harry paid for it with a couple of small silver coins from his pocket before taking it and heading back to the elevators. Once the elevator doors closed, Harry glanced up at Sam, "I hope my luck holds. I really don't want to see Molly or Arthur today…" The elevator halted, _dinged_, and the doors opened before Sam could ask who Molly and Arthur were.

Sam focused on following Harry through the corridors, trying not to stare too much at the patients around him or at the hospital workers,_ Didn't Harry mention they're called 'healers'?_, who were all wearing robes with a patch that depicted a crossed bone and wand. After what seemed to be a disproportionately long walk, yet almost no time at all, the two Hunters entered a part of the hospital which a plaque proclaimed to be the 'Janus Thickey Ward, long-term care'. Another plaque thanked a lengthy list of donors to the hospital. Harry's steps, which before had been purposeful and quick, slowed.

Sam had assumed the 'long-term care' would have translated itself into private or semi-private rooms, like at a nursing home. He was wrong. The ward was a long, open room, not unlike the wards at asylums during the late 1800s and early 1900s. The beds weren't metal-framed cots, though, and much of the room had an attempt at a veneer of hominess about it, with homemade quilts, padded armchairs, and colorful draperies. Harry stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, scanning the patients. Sam heard a quiet gasp, something between a shock of surprise and a choked-off sob, and followed in Harry's wake to a twin-sized bed in the far corner of the room, where Harry stopped short less than four feet from the bed.

A tiny woman sat on the sturdy, wooden bed, wearing a pair of fuzzy flannel pajamas that had pictures of sheep dancing on a blue background. Her hair was long and had once been fiery red, but was now shot through with white. Despite the hair, it was quite obvious that the woman was young, even if she did have a drawn, translucent quality. She held a black plush cat on her lap and was repeatedly petting it – had done so before, if the nearly-bald spot on the cat's head was any indication. Her eyes had a disturbing vacant expression, staring off into a distance unseen by anyone, maybe not even by her.

Harry stepped closer to the woman on the bed. Sam almost couldn't hear his whispered, "Ginny…" Sam closed his eyes, his unease at being in a hospital at all suddenly eclipsed by the understanding that he was intruding. _I shouldn't be here,_ he thought. _I really shouldn't be here_. However, Sam wasn't sure he could find his way back to Remus' house without Harry, and so was stuck where he was. In order to give Harry at least the semblance of privacy, Sam set to examining the pictures and trinkets on the bedside table and on the wall next to Ginny's bed.

Harry knelt in front of Ginny, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't alone. His memories of that night at the top of the Astronomy tower hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. "Ginny…" he repeated. He took her hand in his, ceasing its repetitive petting of the toy cat. "I…" He couldn't finish. Though her hand was warm in his, she hadn't reacted to him. "I'm sorry," he said at length. He pressed her palm to his cheek. "I hadn't meant for this… I hope –" he cut himself off and shook his head minutely, pressed a kiss to Ginny's palm, and sat her hand back on the stuffed toy, where it immediately resumed its ceaseless motion. "No. I… I refuse to hope," he didn't realize it, but his voice was slightly thick, congested. "It's a hopeless situation, I _know_ that."

Sam felt like such an interloper, the proverbial third-wheel. He watched as a younger version of the woman on the bed flew around on a broomstick, her red hair trailing out behind her like a banner, a broad grin on her face. He could see how Harry would have given her his heart; she had a vitality and vibrancy that showed through even in a simple photograph.

Harry got up from the floor and sat next to Ginny on the bed. "I brought you some flowers. I know how much you like them. I wish you could see it, the bouquet, I mean… I… It says what I can't, love." Harry sniffed, and wiped a hand absently across his face. "I've been lost without you. I hope you know that. I would have been by sooner, but…" he trailed off. "I miss you," he sniffled again. "I just… I needed to see you, y'know?"

Another photograph Sam studied showed the girl and Harry cuddled together, sleeping on a red sofa with gold pillows. Unlike most of the other pictures, this one didn't have a lot of movement, only the flickering firelight indicated this photo was, indeed, of wizarding origin. Sam realized that the photo was probably close to a decade old. _She can't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six._ He understood why Harry and Remus talked about what had happened as War-with-a-capital-W; how could he _not_ understand, what with the evidence less than five feet away?

"I'm gonna get him, Gin. I promise. I'm gonna fucking end this, once and for all. I know what you'd say… 'Be careful'. Not that I don't plan to – I've got other promises to keep, after all, even if it is too late for ours…" Harry took a shuddery breath and slowly let it out. "I just wanted you to know. This has got to end. I'm drawing the line, Gin, this stops here. Now. I'm not letting that fuckwit shatter any more dreams, not mine, not anyone else's." Harry slowly stood. He laid a hand on Ginny's hair, ran his fingers once through the white-and-red mane. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, "I promise, Ginevra. I'm going to end this." Harry straightened up and laid the bouquet on the bedside table. He closed his eyes and scrubbed his hands across his face before turning to Sam. "Let's go."

* * *

**A/N2:** For the meaning of Harry's bouquet please see triple-w (dot) iflorist (dot) com (slash) en (slash) act (slash) meaning. 

Reviews are warm fuzzies in my snow-encrusted world.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I couldn't pass up the opportunity to write a buzzed!Sam scene – he's too cute when he babbles.

I had some concerns presented that I've been writing a lot of 'filler'. I won't go into the details, but most of my short chapters will have a bearing on plot later – most of which might not get addressed until part three of the story-arc – but… Keep them in mind later. Grin. Happy reading!

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Old Friends…_

Looking back on it years later, Harry wasn't sure how he and Sam had ended up in… Okay, so he never caught the name of the place. Was that his fault? He didn't think so. He recalled that Sam had spent some time in university, so that was probably how the younger – though still freakishly tall – Hunter had managed to locate… Wherever it was that they'd ended up. Some sort of university-student homing system that worked no matter where the kid was, be it Singapore, Sydney, or San Francisco. Or London, as the case may be.

After leaving Saint Mungo's, Harry dispelled the minor glamours on both he and Sam and set out walking. He'd simply turned his brain _off_ for a while and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It had stopped raining, which had to count for something, but he couldn't put together how he'd gone from aimlessly wandering the streets of London to sitting at a bar in what appeared to be a dance club just gearing up for the night.

"Dude, you back with it?" Sam's voice cut into Harry's confused, meandering thoughts.

Harry blinked a couple of times and shook his head, "What the hell?"

"Good, you're back," Sam grinned.

"Where are we?"

Sam shrugged, "Don't remember the name. Doesn't matter much." He pushed a short glass of something with an odd violet hue across the table. "Figured you could use some time to pull yourself together."

Harry picked up the glass and sniffed its contents, "What time is it?" The liquid smelled faintly of grape and mint and something else he couldn't place.

"Still early. Dude, don't just stare at it. Drink. It's good for you," Sam gestured to the glass before downing the remains of his own identical beverage.

"Why are we here?"

"Because if I'd taken you back to Remus' place, Dean would have dragged us all out to the nearest bar with a pool table. And, quite frankly, I'm sick of those places. Dean wouldn't be caught dead in here – there's no one to hustle and the music would probably make him tear his hair out." Sam flagged the bartender, who appeared moments later with two more glasses of the vaguely purple drink. A crashing rumble of drums kicked in, followed by a heavy bass riff. The ambient noise level skyrocketed as the hundred or so people out on the dance floor roared their approval at the DJ. Somewhere overhead, a smoke machine started pouring out fog, and colored lights began strobing in time with the music. For all that the club was noisy and the music was loud, it was surprisingly easy to hear Sam.

"God, can you imagine _Dean_ in a place like this? I mean, he's less out-of-place in a library." Harry realized that the drink Sam had just finished was likely far from his first. _Great. Now, when I figure out where the hell we are, I can look forward to Dean killing me for brining his brother home drunk._ "Go on, Harry. It ain't gonna bite." Sam laughed. "Well… it will, that's the point. But it really _does_ taste pretty good." Harry tentatively sipped it. It had a strong mint-and-vanilla-and-grape flavor. Oddly, Sam was right. It didn't taste _too_ awful. When compared with, say, Skele-Gro or the inside of a manky old boot.

"You know, I met Jess in a place like this. Sorta. It had a more punk and goth atmosphere – less industrial," he gestured to the bare brick walls and copious amounts of exposed ducting and steel I-beams. "But the music…" he sighed happily. "The music was the same. Hard, harsh… Good 'fuck you' music. Dean's got this mistaken impression I like listening to alternative-emo-pop. _Hell_ no. Give me System of a Down, Tool, Disturbed, or even the latest stuff from Green Day. Jess… She was the same way. Told me once that my theme song had to be _Fucking Determined_ – you know, that song by Mudvayne? If that was my theme, I guess hers had to be_ The Perfect Drug_. Nine Inch Nails. God, Trent Reznor is a_ genius_. I don't think the man's done a single song I don't like." Sam downed his purple vomit-inducing libation in a single gulp.

Harry had no idea what Sam was on about and so had no idea what to say. It didn't matter; Sam was talking enough for the both of them. "Jessica… I really miss her. You know what I mean, I'm sure. Dean doesn't understand. He _can't_ understand… Cassie's still alive; they just broke up. He doesn't know what it's like to lose someone like that," Sam closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face. "God, I can still see it… Just back from that_ useless_ Hunt with Dean in Jericho, the shower running in the bathroom. I mean, what was with the _shower_? Jess was like everyone else – she turned it off when she got out. I just flopped down on the bed, tired to the bone and happy to be home, and then drips hit me. Why did the damn thing have to do that, huh? I mean, just killing her shoulda been enough, right? But no, it sliced her open and pinned her to the ceiling like a frog in a high school biology class before setting her on fire." Sam picked up the second glass of purple vileness that the bartender had sat in front of Harry and took a small drink. "I _still _don't know why Dean came back that night… It was the second time he's had to carry my ass out of a burning building.

"You know, I used to think Dad was full of it about the ceiling and how Mom died – it was a big part of why I never liked Hunting, of why I left in the first place. Sure, I knew that there were real horrors out there, hiding in the night – but I just couldn't believe Mom had died that way. It was _too_ impossible. Just goes to show that Dean had it right from the beginning – don't question Dad, he knew what he was doing. But I couldn't get it, not until it was too late. That son-of-a-bitching demon took everything away from me that mattered. My family, Jess, school… If I could, I'd bring the bastard back just to kill 'im again. All I've got left is Dean and Hunting, so I'll Hunt." Sam knocked back another small swallow of the grossness in his glass. "Show that son of a bitch. Said he wanted me to lead his army. Yeah, no way. No _fucking_ way."

Harry wasn't completely sure what Sam was getting at, but he realized that it didn't much matter. Sam needed to talk to someone, that much was obvious, and besides, it helped a little knowing that Sam knew what he was going through with Ginny. Not a lot, no… There wasn't much that could help a lot, but Harry'd been dealing with it for long enough that he'd take the small comforts whenever he could.

"That Snape dude said that demon blood just activates latent abilities… I thought about that. I think I need to figure out how to own those abilities, own 'em and use 'em against that damn army." Sam snickered, "Damn army of damn demons. Ava figured out how to own her abilities and could control the damn things. Wonder if I could kill 'em if I worked at it? She went darkside, though. I don't want that. Dean promised he'd kill me if I went darkside, but I don't know if he'll stick to it. I mean, he couldn't leave me dead when he had the chance, so I don't think he'd be able to pull the trigger if I did let it all get to me. How the hell do you keep that much power from corrupting you?"

Sam obviously wanted an answer. Harry shrugged, "I don't know what to tell you, Sam. You've got to work some of that out on your own." He let out a humorless little laugh, "I can't help but think we're in the same boat, you and me. We both have these capabilities we didn't ask for; we both lost someone very dear to us as a result of those abilities – maybe not _directly_ because of them, but were we not who we are, your Jess and my Ginny would still be with us. It would be easy, I know, to fall into a revenge-oriented mindset. I've walked that path, though. Not only did it _not_ work like I thought it would, but it led me right back to where I started. I'm lucky – I get a second chance. I get to do it _right_ this time. It doesn't change what I did before, when I was too young and bent on revenge to see clearly, and I wish I could go back and change things." Harry stared down at the still-full glass in front of him. "Maybe that's the answer you're looking for, Sam."

"What is?"

Harry met Sam's gaze, "What's the difference between revenge and justice?" That question threw Sam back into a couple of his pre-law lectures at Stanford, when he and other students had debated that very topic for hours on end. The memories were so vibrant he swore he could smell the faint taint of a whiteboard marker in the air. Before Sam could answer, Harry continued, "It's one word, Sam. Regret. That's the only difference between revenge and justice, between someone forced to do something horrible and a monster. Stop feeling regret and you start distancing yourself from your humanity."

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I suppose that makes sense. More sense than most else I've heard on the topic, at any rate." He toyed a little with his nearly-empty glass, looking into its contents as though they held the meaning to life. "She's dead, you know."

"Who?"

"Your girl at the hospital. Don't matter that she's still breathing. She isn't _there_. She's wherever we go after. With our folks. Jess. Her brother. Read about those ringwraith-looking guards at that prison when we were at Bobby's and Remus had us researching that list of spells. Book said that they don't go near people like your Ginny, not even when they're starving," Sam's eyes flickered up to Harry.

Harry met Sam's eyes and sighed, "I know. I just had to see for myself. She isn't there – hasn't been for far too long. Just another reason why I'm not coming back here after we finish off Riddle. I don't need reminders like that."

"To Ginny and Jess," Sam lifted his glass.

Harry lifted his own and clinked them together, "To staying true to their memories," he replied before screwing up his courage and downing the contents of the glass.

* * *

Dean yawned and glanced at the clock that hung on the wall over Remus' television. Unlike most of the other clocks in the house, this one actually said what time it was _in numbers_. He'd reset his watch when he'd found it. It was just coming up on seven-thirty in the evening. He was starting to get a little worried. Sam and Harry had been gone since just after noon. He'd give them until eight before he started calling. _Who knows?_ Dean thought with a grin. _Maybe Sammy found a pretty girl_. He snapped the book he'd been reading shut. 

"Giving up already?" Remus commented from the desk.

"Yeah… I went through most of this back at Bobby's. I haven't found anything new. Besides, reading for too long tends to give me a headache, especially if it's shit like this – stories, legends. The only thing that's worse is legalese or medispeak." Dean stood up and paced for a couple of minutes, working out the stiffness that had settled in from sitting in one position for better than four hours.

"You don't need glasses?" Remus asked, not looking up from the notes he was compiling.

"Fuck no," Dean snapped. In all honesty, he was getting tired of people suggesting that whenever he mentioned he didn't like reading. "I can see just fine, and no, that ain't just a load of bull to get you to shut up about it."

Remus jotted something down on a piece of scratch-paper and said, "2098-3475-8573-2847." Looking up at Dean, he sighed. "Perhaps, if I knew what you were looking for, I could offer more assistance."

Dean shrugged, "That chick in my dreams said that I had to 'find the stag' to get my answers. All I been able to find so far is that the stag was sacred to the Diana/Artemis figure and that 'stag-hunting' is apparently local weirdo-speak for a search for wisdom."

Remus snorted out a laugh. "I don't think that's what she meant, Dean. Usually when a deity directs someone to find an animal, they're actually trying to get you to find another _person_. In this case, though… The obvious answer is not the correct one."

"Huh?"

"I mean Harry's patronus takes the shape of a stag, but you've spoken with him, and do _you_ think he's who you're supposed to see?"

Dean leaned on the pillar that was almost touching Remus' desk. "I see your point. So, if not Harry, then who?"

"The only other stag that comes to mind was James – Harry's father. He was a stag-animagus. Since he died more than twenty years ago, I doubt that is who she meant."

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head, "Yeah, that don't feel right. The only other 'stags' that spring to my mind are even less likely than your suggestions. Stag films and the Triumph Stag – and what a craptastic car _that_ was. No offense, Remus, but you Brits have no freaking clue what makes a truly _good_ car tick. You can make a good-looking vehicle, true, but _damn_, dude. Engine problems up the wazoo."

Remus nodded, "I am fully aware of my country's automotive shortcomings, thank you. By the way, what was the number I said earlier?"

"Number? Oh, um… 2098-3475-8573-2847. What's it for, a credit card? 'Cause it's too long to be a phone number – even an international one."

Remus smirked, "Well, that proves my theory." Dean blinked at him. Remus shuffled his notes around, "You're an auditory learner. And, judging from that gun you altered, you don't do too shabbily with visual learning, either; charts, graphs, illustrations and the like. Just guessing here, but when you were in school, you probably excelled in lectures and hands-on stuff, right? While the classes that centered primarily on just the written word were things you didn't do too well in."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the werewolf. "Just what does that have to do with anything?"

"I am right, yes?"

"Yeah, so?"

Remus finished organizing his notes and stood. "There's no reason to get all defensive. I was a private tutor for several years, even though I only taught at a school for the one year. Everyone learns things differently. Your brain is wired to pay more attention to concrete realities rather than abstractions. It's why you get headaches from reading dry text. Man's greatest abstraction is the written word." Remus held his hands up in a supplicating gesture; he could see Dean bristling a little. "It's not an indication of intelligence, Dean. It's just a different way of thinking. There's only about three percent of the population who could repeat a sixteen-digit number correctly after hearing it only once, let alone when that number was in no way connected to the conversation and asked for several minutes after it was originally said."

"So what are you saying?"

"Try approaching your research at a different angle. Most of the legends and stories you've been trying to wade through can be found in other media than books. I know you like music – why don't you get Harry's computer and see if you can find a few songs?"

Dean let out an amused little huffing noise. "Huh… Never really thought about going at it that way before." He grinned, "Can't hurt, right?"

"No research is ever wasted," Remus agreed.

* * *

_Maybe Sam has the right idea,_ Harry thought as he watched Sam dancing with a pretty girl who had heard him talk and asked him onto the dance floor. _Just get drunk and forget who I am for a little while. Forget where I am and why I'm back in London._ Harry had just flagged the bartender, hopeful that there was some real alcohol somewhere in the building, when he heard a voice he'd never hoped to hear again. "Scotch and soda," it said. In Harry's mind, he heard _I've been practicing, you know. Just biding my time and waiting for the perfect opportunity. I suppose I should thank you for this, Potter – after all, this really is all because of you._ Harry slowly turned his head to the right. Through the messy curtain of his hair, he saw a gorgeous blonde girl in a low-cut top and short skirt hanging off of Draco-Fucking-Malfoy. 

In the space of time it took for the bartender to mix Malfoy's drink, Harry analyzed his options. Malfoy hadn't spotted him yet, but it was simply a matter of time. Though he itched to outright kill the little bastard, he knew that was a Bad Plan in a crowded club of muggles. There was also a touch of vestigial curiosity as to why Malfoy was in a _muggle_ club, with, presumably, a _muggle_ girl. After obtaining his drink, Malfoy and the blonde in the mini-skirt headed through the club to a set of stairs on the far side of the room. Harry slipped off his barstool and shadowed them to a lounge area packed with low sofas and cushy armchairs. Hiding in the shadows behind a steel I-beam, Harry strained to hear what Malfoy was telling the blonde.

"What was it you said you did?" Mini-skirt asked.

Draco chuckled, "Acquisitions."

"What's that?" the girl giggled. "I mean, I know what the word means, and I've heard it as a job before, but just what _is_ it, really?"

"I get things that my boss needs," was the reply.

_Son of a bitch_, Harry knew why Malfoy was in the club. He hurried back down the stairs and searched out Sam. Pulling the tall man away from the dance floor, Harry handed him some muggle money. "Take this. Go back to Remus' place. Grimmauld Place. Number twelve. Can you remember that?"

"Why? What's up, Harry?" Sam was feeling warm and fuzzy, but the room wasn't spinning.

Harry grimaced, "I'm going ferret-hunting."

Sam's relaxed grin didn't fade so much as evaporate at the mention of the word 'hunting'. "You're not going alone."

"Sam, don't argue with me – you're in no shape to help. Just go back to Grimmauld."

"Dude, I'm buzzed – not plastered." No, it would take more than four of those delicious little whachamacallits to get him plastered. Hell, the last time he got wasted, it took most of a bottle of tequila to do the job. Those little purple things were just schnapps and grape juice – just enough alcohol to make talking easier.

"Exactly, you're bloody _drunk_, and I can't watch you and Malfoy both. So go, Sam."

Sam shook his head, "I'm _not _drunk, and no, I'm _not_ leaving." Had Dean or Bobby been there, they could have told Harry to just give in. Sam had a stubborn tilt to his shoulders and a deadly serious expression that indicated it would take an act of God to get him to change his mind.

"Please go," Harry was _this _close to just hitting one of Sam's shirt buttons with a portus, muggle witnesses be damned.

"Ask again and I'll make a scene," Sam warned.

"Fuck. You would, wouldn't you?" Harry could recognize when he was cornered.

Sam nodded. "So… What's your plan?"

Harry shook his head, "Watch and wait."

"No offense, but that's a sucky plan. Which one is he?"

* * *

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered, sprawled across one of the low sofas by the television, staring at the screen of Harry's computer. 

"Find something?" Remus asked, looking up from his typewriter.

"I think so," Dean replied. It had taken him a full half hour to locate Harry's laptop amid the clutter that had rapidly accumulated in Harry's room over the last two days. After booting it, he opened up an internet browser and had stopped short at the homepage. Harry had it set to open up on some American wizarding-world news site. A side-column grabbed his attention. _UK Artist to Open Show in NY_. There was a photograph of an animated painting next to the article. It showed a ghostly stag charging a shadowy serpentine figure on a dark background. He read the short article aloud. "British artist, Luna Lovegood, has agreed to show twenty of her latest works at Heidenlan's Gallery. The show is scheduled to run November first through the thirtieth. When asked about the show, Lovegood replied, 'I find it enormously funny that everyone seems to like my silly little hobby.' Lovegood, age twenty-six, plans to use the funds raised from the sale her 'Ballad of the Stag and Serpent' series to fund a zoological expedition into northern Québec next spring."

Remus got up from his desk and strode over to peer at the computer screen. "That the stag you needed to find?"

Dean clicked on the photo of the painting to enlarge it. "Yeah, I think so."

* * *

It was relatively easy to talk Harry into a plan – for all that he claimed to despise them. To be completely honest though, it probably had more to do with Harry's desire to see the younger Malfoy's head on a pike than Sam's actual plan. Another big draw to the plan had to do with the fact that the club was packed full of muggles – Harry would have the dual advantages of ensuring Malfoy couldn't use his wand and having Sam as backup. 

Harry climbed the staircase to the lounge area of the club, pausing at the top of the stairs just to make sure Malfoy was still where he'd last seen him, chatting up the girl in the mini-skirt. Harry focused on walking to the railing, pretending not to notice Malfoy on the sofa, but keeping the ferret in the corner of his field of vision. He strode over to the balcony and leaned against it, watching the dancers on the floor below. _Check_, Ron's voice said in his head. _Your move, git_.

Sam was watching from the bottom of the staircase, ready to sprint up and help. Harry saw Draco lean in to say something to his 'date' and stand. Harry nodded slightly to Sam, who climbed a couple of stairs. "Well, well, well… This is a surprise. Never thought I'd see you again," Malfoy's smarmy voice cut through the thumping pulse of music. "Alive, at any rate."

Harry slowly turned around and faced the taller blonde wizard. "Funny," he said, "because I knew I'd be seeing you again."

"Is that so?" Draco replied, a smirk on his face. "How's that, then? Been hoping I'll drop by to visit once they throw your halfblood hide in Azkaban?"

Harry grinned, his eyes cold, "No, ferret. You and I have a debt to settle."

Draco laughed. Actually fucking _laughed_. "You're still on about that whore? Merlin, this is priceless!"

Harry's temper spiked. He restrained himself from throwing the first punch. It took nearly every last ounce of willpower he possessed to do so, but he managed. Facing Draco, he was also facing the top of the staircase and saw Sam leaning on the rail, standing between a heavyset black man in a t-shirt and an anonymously plain woman in a red dress. "Tell me, Malfoy… How's your father doing these days? Did you know that muggle medicine can do wonders for burn-scars? How's he doing now that your mum left him, hmm? I imagine it came as something of a shock to realize that your mother was as vain a bitch as ever there was." Harry could see that his words were hitting precisely where he'd intended. "Oh… I'm sorry – I didn't mean to upset you."

"Where'd you hear that?" Draco spat. "It's nothing but a vicious lie!"

"I have my sources," Harry replied, then mock-sighed, looking Draco head-to-toe. "It's sad, really. I had higher expectations of you – too bad that you're as pathetic as ever."

_Checkmate_, Ron's voice echoed as Draco started to reach for his wand before changing the motion halfway through and landing a poorly-powered punch on Harry's chin. Harry could have ducked, but he knew the angle was all wrong for it to do much more than make his teeth click together. Harry retaliated by shoving Draco back a step, catching Sam's eyes as he did so and giving a little nod. Over the course of the next minute or so, Harry came to realize that Draco had obviously learned some muggle fighting methods sometime in the last ten years, regardless of the feebleness of that first punch. By the time the club's bouncers came to throw them out, Harry had a split lip, a bloody nose, and would be sporting a healthy bruise across his shoulders from landing on a coffee table. On the upside, the leech bite was fully-healed, and so hadn't caused him any problems. Draco hadn't escaped the fight unscathed – the blonde would have two black eyes by morning and Harry was positive he'd seen the git spit out a tooth.

Sam saw the bouncers approaching and got out of their way. The two big men hauled Draco and Harry to their feet and muscled them out a side door on the first floor. Sam followed them closely. Harry was thrown into a pile of cardboard boxes, Draco – being somewhat taller and heavier than Harry – didn't make it quite as far, and landed in a heap on the cement. Before the blonde could climb to his feet, Sam strode quickly over and hit him in the back of his head. Draco crumbled with a soft _oof_ noise.

Sam turned around at a tap on his shoulder. Harry hauled back and punched him, but not with as much force as he could have. Sam raised a hand to his jaw, "Jesus, Harry! What was that for?"

"I wanted to do that," he motioned to the unconscious blonde.

"You were busy," Sam laughed. "Now that we've got him, though… What should we do with him?"

* * *

"Dean, Remus! We're back!" Sam shouted from the entry hall of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. "Can I put him down now?" he asked Harry in a quieter tone. Sam had Draco Malfoy in a fireman's carry over his shoulder. 

Harry shrugged and returned their borrowed umbrellas to the troll-leg stand in the corner. "Whatever, mate. Just don't dent the wall – Remus put too much effort into remodeling this place."

Sam dropped the blonde onto the floor, not caring in the slightest if he added further injury. He'd heard Harry's story and seen Ginny for himself. He didn't know – didn't _want_ to know – all of what Harry had in mind for the blonde; what he did know was quite enough.

"What the _hell_?"

Sam smiled up at his brother, who was halfway down the flight of stairs. "Hey, Dean."

Ignoring the unconscious man on the floor, Dean strode down the remaining stairs. Pointing to the bruise on Sam's jaw, he repeated, "What the hell, Sammy?"

"Evening, mate," Harry replied cheerfully as he retrieved his wand from his sleeve. "Mobilicorpus." Draco rose into the air. "How was your day?"

Dean took in Harry's crooked nose and split lip, the blood on his shirt, and the raccoon nature of the bruises on the floating man in a quick glance. "Fine. Want to tell me just what the fuck's going on? Who is this guy?"

"Dean, meet Draco Malfoy. Trust me, this is about as polite as he gets," Harry started walking down the hallway towards the door to the basement, Draco bobbing along behind him like a child's twisted balloon animal.

"How come the three of you look like you've been in a bar-fight?"

Harry chuckled and opened the door to the basement staircase, "For me and him, that'd be about right. Sam… well, I did that, but don't fret on it."

Dean looked from Sam to Harry and back. "What?"

"I think," Sam said, "that if what Harry's got in mind actually works, we just might finish up here faster than we'd hoped. Personally, I'm not banking on it, but the potential is there. At the very least, we just might rule out a couple of improbabilities."

"And just what does Harry have in mind? And why the _fuck_ did he hit you?" Dean really didn't like not knowing what was going on – particularly not when it involved his little brother.

Sam gave his brother a cockeyed grin. "I honestly don't know all of it. Not sure I really _want_ to know, to tell you the truth. And, like he said, don't worry about why he hit me. Hell, _you've_ hit me before."

"That's 'cause you usually deserved it."

"Exactly," Sam replied before following Harry down the stairs.

Dean ran a hand over his face, _I'm sure I'm going to regret this_, and followed Sam.

By the time the two Winchesters had managed to navigate the narrow, steep staircase – which emerged, oddly, into the kitchen – Harry had already 'escorted' Draco into a side room. Sam was pretty sure the side room was, once upon a time, the wine cellar, but instead of holding racks of bottles, the room was now mostly empty. There were a couple of wooden crates and a stack of cardboard boxes, but not much else. It had a flagstone floor, stone walls, and a bare wooden ceiling. "Sam, Dean, would you two do me a favor and move these boxes out of here?" Harry asked, lowering Draco onto the floor. "Accio wand," the blonde's wand ripped a hole in his expensive-looking slacks. "Accio portkey." A slender silver chain snapped itself off of Draco's neck.

About the same time the last of the boxes had been moved, Harry had succeeded in stripping the blonde of most of his possessions. Leaving Draco in his boxers and socks, Harry secured the former wine cellar against magical forms of travel and locked the door shut from the outside. "So… I almost don't wanna ask this, but… Now what?" Dean asked from his perch on the kitchen table.

Harry smiled innocently. "Now, I think, we should give him time to come around. Let him wonder for a bit just where he is and what we've got up our sleeves."

* * *

Remus shook his head as though to clear his ears. "You've got _who_ locked up in the basement?" 

Harry grinned, "Draco Malfoy."

"That's what I thought you said… Just why is he locked in the basement?" Remus repositioned Harry's head under the lamp and aimed his wand at Harry's nose. "Hold still. Episky."

There was a brief flare of white light followed by the crunch of bone and cartilage repositioning themselves into their proper formations. Harry winced and his eyes watered. "Damn, that hurt more than breaking it in the first place."

"You'll be more careful in the future, won't you?" Remus let go of Harry's face and replaced his wand in his pocket. "Now, were you going to tell me just why you've got Draco Malfoy locked in my basement? And how did you find him?"

Harry shrugged, "We accidentally ran into him – that's how. As to why… Well, surely you can see the potential of having him here."

"I can, but that doesn't mean I have to like it any."

"Did you contact Minerva?"

Remus nodded, "I did. She'll be expecting you tomorrow morning. After an international floo was logged to her office last week – I assume it was Secretary MacRucky – the Ministry has restricted flooing into or out of Hogwarts, so you'll need to find some other way to get there."

"I'll think of something," Harry replied.

"I'm sure you will," Remus agreed. "We also decided on a cover story for your presence."

"What do you mean?" Harry had thought that dropping by to retrieve the Aroliantivashi would only take a couple of minutes.

"Minerva's not sure where Albus stashed the bottle."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Harry muttered.

* * *

The twenty-third of October was one of those clear, crisp days where the bright sunshine would lead observers to believe that the day was beautifully warm. However, appearances can be misleading – especially in the Scottish highlands. There may have been clear blue sky and cheerful sunlight streaming down, but it was that odd level of chilly where a coat is too warm and a jacket isn't enough so the only options are either bake or freeze. 

Harry handed Sam and Dean a couple of small pendants Remus had given him – the charms on the jewelry would make it so that the Winchesters would be able to see Hogwarts – and waited for them to slip the chains over their heads before leading the way from the small clearing into which they'd apparated. Sam had a notebook and a quill pen in one hand. Dean was carrying Remus' old camera. Their cover story would be one they were quite familiar with – posing as reporters. In this case, for _The Salem Watch_, an American wizarding magazine, doing a piece on European schools of magic. Harry was going to be spending the majority of his time looking for the bottle they needed. With luck, no one would even realize he was there.

After a couple of minutes of meandering through dense forest, Harry led the Winchesters to a path that created a tunnel through the trees. "Hogwarts is up this way. Hogsmeade is down that way. I honestly have no fucking clue how long we're going to be here, and the nearest pub's down that way. The Hog's Head is somewhat… seedy, but they're cheaper. The Three Broomsticks is classier – if a pub can be called that – but it's very public. You don't want to talk there unless you want everyone to know your business," Harry said before starting up the path to the school. "Remus said Minerva'd be sending down someone to meet you two at the gates and give you a tour. I'm going to head in a different way. We'll meet back up again in the headmistress' office at four."

The three Hunters rounded a bend in the path and Harry stopped short. "Son of a bitch," he muttered before dropping to the ground, grabbing Sam's and Dean's arms as he did so. A bolt of shimmery, displaced air soared overhead.

Sam looked up and saw a woman striding down the path to them. She had frizzy, brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and was wearing a dark brown dress under her black robe, carrying her wand extended in front of her in her right hand. In short, she looked something like the spirit of overdue books, come to collect fines in a pound of flesh.

In the time it took Sam to take this in, Harry had retrieved his own wand from his arm holster and had rolled forward. Springing to his feet, he shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

"Protego," the woman replied. "Rictusempra."

Harry dove to one side, "Tarantallegra!"

The woman belied her librarian look by spinning out of the way with surprising speed and ease. "You'll have to do better than that! Aguamenti maxima!"

"Contego," Harry retorted, and a medieval-looking wood-and-copper shield sprang into existence on his left arm. Using the shield to deflect the jet of high-pressure water, Harry peered around the edge of the shield. "Expelliarmus," he tried again.

The woman obviously didn't hear him over the sound of the rushing water, and so her wand was wrenched from her grasp. This didn't stop her, however. Just as Harry dispelled the conjured shield, she rushed forward and threw a rock, hitting Harry's wand hand. He dropped the wand. "Damn it," he swooped over to pick it back up, and by the time he'd straightened up, the woman was right in front of him. Before he had a chance to react, the woman landed a punch on his jaw. It knocked him off his feet. Raising his hand to rub his jaw, he looked up at her. "Hullo, Hermione."

"Minerva didn't tell me you were coming," she replied, glaring down at Harry.

"She probably had a good reason," Harry said.

"You're going to finish it, aren't you?"

Harry nodded. "One way or another."

She leaned over and offered Harry her hand. After pulling him to his feet, she sighed. "My wand?" One quick accio later and Harry gave Hermione back her wand. Dean pointedly cleared his throat and Harry and Hermione turned around. Both of the Winchesters were soaking wet and shivering. Hermione laughed a little, "I'm sorry." She cast a couple of drying charms on them. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

"Dean Winchester," Dean grinned. "This is Sam."

Checking her watch, Hermione sighed again. "Come along then. You three can fill me in tonight, after supper."

Harry and the Winchesters followed Hermione the remainder of the way to the school. Shortly before arriving at the gates, Harry disappeared into the forest, a magical map of the school in hand.

* * *

**A/N2:** Okay, so this chapter was originally intended to be posted a week ago, but Iowa got hit with a fucking _ice storm_ which knocked out the electric for the better part of three full days. I ended up staying with my sister until they got the power back on at home and my sis doesn't have internet (nor is there a wi-fi anywhere nearby). Oh, and when the power finally got turned back on at home, we found that the satellite for our internet had been knocked out of alignment, and so we didn't have internet back up and running at home until late last night. Growl. 

Reviews make me feel warm and fuzzy.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Sorry this took so bloody long to get out, but have y'all any freakin' clue how hard it is to do anagrams? They suck out loud, particularly the length of the one I had to do for the story.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Back in the Saddle…_

"If the hallways and staircases and all of that change whenever they feel like it, how do the kids _ever_ get to classes on time?" Sam asked Hermione as she slowly led him and Dean toward the headmistress' office.

"Hogwarts seems to know when classes are in session and so doesn't change the main hallways much at those times. In fact, most of the shifting happens primarily to side halls and secondary routes," she replied. "After a while, you get a feel for which halls are more likely to change and which ones tend to stay the same."

The three of them rounded a corner, and a bright pink something exploded directly on Hermione with a splash. Looking up, both Dean and Sam saw a horribly-dressed man with small, beady eyes and an orange bow-tie floating up near the ceiling. He also was wearing an expression that was universally understood to mean, 'Oh, shit!'

Before Sam or Dean could react to his presence, Hermione's eyes flashed and her wand was out, "Phasma petrificus!" The little man seemed to freeze in place and slowly began to sink towards the floor. "Peeves, you've hit me for the _last_ time," Hermione menaced. "BARON!" she shouted.

In the time it took Dean and Sam to exchange a look, a gruesome ghost appeared. Even though they'd been briefed by Harry that Hogwarts had several ghosts – none of whom were malevolent in any way – it was still the Winchester brothers' first instinct to go for their salt-guns. That said: it was probably a good thing that the shotguns had been left at Remus' house for the time-being.

The ghost bowed to Hermione. "Good afternoon, Baron," she said, returning the ghost's bow. "I would be most appreciative if you could please do something about Peeves and his propensity for throwing water-balloons on people without first finding out if they're students or staff."

The ghost nodded and a twisted smile graced his colorless face. The man with the orange bow-tie paled considerably. Hermione nodded gratefully to the ghost, hit herself with a drying charm, and continued down the hallway. After a couple of steps, she looked over her shoulder, "Coming?"

Sam and Dean hurried to catch up, Dean forcibly trying to ignore the tingle along the back of his neck from the ghosts he just saw.

* * *

The first thing Harry noticed about the headmaster's office, _Well, headmistress' office now,_ was that the stone gargoyle which guarded the staircase was already open. A small plaque next to the stairs read, 'Office Hours M-F 3-5pm, Sat 1-3pm'. _That's new. Hafta say, it's a good idea. Never did know why Dumbledore made it so difficult to get to him in a pinch._ Harry hurried up the steps, his map verifying that Minerva was alone in her office.

"Come in," she replied when he knocked on her door.

Harry strode in, noting as he did so that many of the mysterious whirring gadgets Albus had littering the office were still in attendance. He assumed they had something to do with the many magics on the school itself. "Professor," he greeted McGonagall with a nod of his head.

Minerva smiled softly at Harry. He was wearing faded, worn blue jeans, a pair of heavy black boots, and a plain gray t-shirt under his leather motorcycle jacket. Unlike the last time she could remember seeing him standing under his own power, he was standing straight with his shoulders back and his feet planted firmly on the floor. He stood at a slight angle, keeping the door in his peripheral vision. His hair was a little longer than he'd kept it as a student, though still as messy as she remembered. Somewhere along the line, he'd gotten his eyes fixed and so was lacking his trademark spectacles; it made his eyes all the more striking. Her smile faded a little when she noticed the hardness that had crept into his eyes. The man standing before her had come a long way from the wonderstruck little boy she remembered. "It's been far too long, Mr. Potter," she said at length.

"I know," Harry replied. "That was rather my intention in leaving to begin with, professor."

"You've changed, Harry."

Harry let himself smile a little, "Not as much as all that."

"Have a seat," Minerva gestured to the pair of armchairs which faced her desk. "Did you want a cup of tea?"

"Thanks, but no," Harry picked a chair and sat down, turning the chair slightly as he did so.

"I'm sure Mad Eye would approve of your apparent paranoia, Harry."

Harry shrugged, "A light dose of paranoia has saved my life on more than one occasion, Minerva."

"I'm sure it has. What have you been doing with yourself these past few years?"

Harry snorted in misplaced amusement. "Sorry, professor. It's just that… Well, we both know Dumbledore wouldn't have asked me that question – not directly, at any rate."

Minerva's polite smile broadened into something a bit more genuine, "Albus always did like making people think he knew far more about a situation than he really did."

"As to what I've been doing… You spoke with Leanne. Remus, too. I find it hard to believe they haven't told you."

"Perhaps I wished to hear your side of things. Particularly how you seem to be on a first-name basis with the American Secretary of Magic."

Harry chuckled. "First of all, I didn't know who she was when I met her. It wasn't until after we'd been talking for a while before I figured out she was who she was. By then, it really didn't matter much. As long as she wasn't going to send me back here, I didn't care." His smile took on a slightly melancholy tone, "She helped me when it seemed that no one else would. What her job was had nothing to do with it."

* * *

"So," Dean had increased his pace a little to keep up with Hermione, "I was wondering…"

"Too many hours reading in poor light coupled with a hereditary tendency towards slight astigmatism," Hermione stated, confusing the hell out of Dean.

"Huh?"

"The glasses," she replied, glancing up at his face.

"Um, not what I was wondering. How come that's what you thought?" he was honestly curious.

"Oh," Hermione flushed a little at her own silliness. "Just that most magical folk automatically want to know why I suddenly started needing spectacles this past year. To be honest, I'm getting tired of being asked about it." She paused at the junction of two hallways, "What were you wondering?"

"Just that your," Dean grinned and made air-quotes, "'welcome' was somewhat surprising. What caused it?"

Hermione sighed a little and looked from Dean to Sam and back. "I don't know what-all you've been told about him," there was no doubt as to which 'him' she was referring, "and what happened, but… That somewhat embarrassing display had been brewing for years. I'll be the first to admit it was rather childish of me, but the last time I saw him, I _was_ a child. Consider it a momentary lapse of sanity if you must, though I prefer to think of it as finally purging the last vestiges of the unreasonable, self-righteous little bint I used to be." With that, she increased her pace somewhat and continued leading the Winchester brothers through the school. Dean lingered for a moment, leering lightly at the way Hermione's 'robes' showed off her figure. It may not have been the best one he'd ever seen, but she had spirit.

Sam couldn't help but notice his brothers momentary delay. _He always did have a thing for the brainy ones,_ he thought, a light smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

They were most of the way done with the tour when bells rang, signaling the end of whatever class had been in session until that point. As they were halfway down the charms corridor, heading towards the main staircases, it wasn't long before the three adults found themselves caught in a mass of teenagers. Flitwick had been teaching the fourth year Ravenclaw/Slytherin class, and it was glaringly obvious to the Winchesters that, magical school or not, kids were kids no matter where they were.

"Hey! Penny, wait up!" a slender blonde girl shouted over the group, pushing her way through.

"…and then I told him…" a passing nondescript boy spoke in low tones to his two closest friends.

A group of four girls, all wearing uniforms with blue highlights slowly strolled past, not only noticing Sam and Dean, but giggling and whispering madly about that fact.

By the time the last of the teens had disappeared, Sam had a nostalgic little grin on his face, Dean was frowning slightly, and they both had the unerring feeling they'd just survived a small stampede.

"Ah! Miss Granger! Just the lady I was hoping I would see!" Both of the Winchesters turned in the direction of the new voice. An extremely short man stood in the doorway of the classroom, a mound of scrolls hovering just above and behind him.

"Professor Flitwick," Hermione returned the greeting. "What did you need of me?"

"Cassandra Morgan is still having difficulties with my class, and pairing her with Mr. Smythe doesn't appear to be helping matters much. If it's not too much trouble, I would like to direct her to seek you out for additional assistance."

Hermione nodded, "Not a problem. Have her stop by tomorrow evening after dinner and we'll discuss it."

"Certainly," Flitwick stepped forward a couple of paces, glancing curiously at the Winchesters. "I hope you're able to see what seems to be the problem. In all honesty, I can't fathom why her homework is so well-done, yet the actual execution of the theories she quite obviously knows eludes her."

"Especially since we know it's not a problem with power levels or a case of a mis-matched wand," Hermione replied.

"Precisely so," Flitwick agreed. He smiled cheerfully up at the brothers. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Filius Flitwick, professor of Charms."

"Sam Winchester," Sam replied, then gestured to his brother, "and Dean."

Before he could say anything more, Hermione interrupted, "They're with _The Salem Watch_, doing a piece on schools of magic here in Europe. However," she checked her wristwatch, "we are running a little late for their meeting with the headmistress."

* * *

"And you're certain you're happy with what you've been doing?" Minerva asked as Harry finished explaining what he'd been doing in the US.

Harry shrugged, "Happy enough, I suppose. It's close enough to what I had wanted to do here that it's satisfying, at any rate. And there's the upside that the majority of people I end up helping don't already think they know everything about me."

"It sounds like a lonely existence." In truth, Minerva was somewhat saddened by Harry's chosen 'career'. _He deserves better_.

"Being alone and being lonely are two separate and unrelated things," Harry replied, an odd sort of half-smile on his face. "Besides, it's something that needs doing."

Before the headmistress could reply to that, Hermione, followed closely by the Winchesters, arrived in the office. Addressing the brothers, Minerva said, "I trust our resident librarian managed to show you around without too much difficulty?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam replied.

A short time later, after seating had been conjured for everyone, introductions made, and coffee or tea made available, Minerva leaned back in her chair, a single piece of paper in her hands. "When Remus contacted me, saying you needed the Aroliantivashi, I'll admit I was a little surprised. However, I did search for it. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to locate it. The only thing I could find was this," she indicated the paper, "in Albus' personal files, and it doesn't seem to be at all helpful." She handed it across the desk to Harry.

Harry read it over, his expression blatantly perplexed, before handing it to Dean. Sam read it over Dean's shoulder.

_Blurb,_

_O yolk buy idyll tuxedo daily rudish, dunked A youth owl ruin if disavow hurt enrich. Handle say toga do, hut Interrelations be awhile chosen rug dynamite'd she on saw Oilcake an Tribute. Hero vest, holy air, end hop wet of gist mace dual shirt. -E.N._

It was printed neatly on a square of graph paper, with one letter in each box, and spaces between words indicated by a blank box. A small sketch of what looked like a clay vase decorated the lower half of the page.

While the Winchesters read the short note, Minerva continued speaking. "It's not charmed to hide its contents; I verified that it is exactly what you see, simple ink and paper."

"Whaddaya think, Sammy? Caesar?"

Sam glanced through the message again, "Only if 'Yiroy' makes more sense than 'Blurb'."

Dean glanced at the magical folk in the room. "Uh, that'd be a no, then."

"Graph paper…" Sam mumbled, "and random capitals…"

"Dana Schulps?" Dean smirked, knowing that Sam would know what he meant.

"Likely. Preserving the size of the words in the original message."

"Punctuation, too," Dean pointed to the word 'dynamite'd' on the paper.

"Good place to start as any, I suppose," Sam removed his memo book from a pocket and Dean handed him a pen.

Minerva, Hermione, and Harry merely watched in fascination and confusion as the two American muggles wasted no time in trying to make sense of a seemingly nonsensical message.

Dean started by rattling off a string of numbers and punctuation, "Capital-five, comma. New line: capital-one, four, three, five, six, five, six, comma, capital-one, five three, four, two, seven, four, six, period. Capital-six, three, four, two, comma, three, capital-fourteen, two, six, six, three, eight-apostrophe-one, three, two, three, capital-seven, two, capital-seven, period. Capital-four, four, comma, four, three, comma, three, three, three, two, four, four, four, five, period. Dash, capital-one, period, capital-one, period."

"You take the first half," Sam said, handing Dean a blank slip of paper out of his memo book, "and I'll do the second half." Twenty minutes later, the wizarding contingent in the room was clued in on what that meant when Sam totaled up the list from Dean with his own. "Okay, so there's fifteen 'A's, five 'B's, four 'C's, thirteen 'D's, nineteen 'E's, two 'F's, three 'G's, thirteen 'H's, sixteen 'I's, no 'J's, three 'K's, twelve 'L's, two 'M's, twelve 'N's, sixteen 'O's, one 'P', no 'Q's, twelve 'R's, ten 'S's, fourteen 'T's, twelve 'U's, two 'V's, five 'W's, one 'X', eight 'Y's, and no 'Z's."

Dean hovered over Sam's shoulder, peering at the paper they were working with. "Two hundred total letters in forty-seven words." He grinned, "This ought to be fun." Glancing over at Harry, Dean asked, "How do you spell the name of that bottle we're after?" Harry told him.

Sam nodded, "Fourteen letters, so if we replace 'Interrelations' with 'Aroliantivashi', that would probably also make this 'hut' actually 'the'."

"Only capitalized single-letter word is 'I'. Can change out the 'O' and 'A', too," Dean pointed to the appropriate places on the paper.

With occasional input from either Harry or Minerva – Hermione had to return to the library – the Winchesters managed to decode most of the message before dinner. By the time Minerva returned to her office with Hermione, the message was done and the three Hunters were working their way through their own meal. There was a small drift of balled-up papers surrounding Sam's chair – dead ends in the decoding process which had lead nowhere.

"How goes it?" Hermione asked, resuming her seat in the chair on the furthest right hand side of the line of four facing Minerva's desk.

"Done," Dean replied around a mouthful of shepherd's pie. He handed her the final draft of the message.

Hermione read it aloud, "Harry, I know you would rather never return, though I doubt you will be allowed this luxury. Should you need it, the Aroliantivashi is hidden within the basilisk's den in the Chamber of Secrets. Good luck, dear boy, and may you at long last find peace. -A.D."

Minerva was impressed, "Just how did you manage to get that from the note I found?"

Dean grinned a little roguishly in Hermione's direction, "It was just an anagram, ma'am. A logic puzzle of letters and words, rather than clues and charts."

Hermione was as impressed as Minerva, but for different reasons. It was obvious, from the little of the decoding process she had been able to witness, that though Harry's American friends weren't magical, neither were they stupid. Logic and reasoning were hard to come by in the wizarding world, _The muggle world as well, for that matter_, but she could appreciate the skill when it surfaced.

Sam didn't notice the look on Dean's face, nor the appreciative half-smile on Hermione's face as he yawned widely. "Now that we know _where_ it is, are we gonna get it tonight, or wait for tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Harry replied. "I don't know about anyone else, but I could do with some sleep."

"Bed sounds good," Dean agreed, though it was obvious his meaning was somewhat different than Harry's, as he set to draining the last of the coffee in his cup.

Hermione arched an eyebrow a little. It wasn't that she'd never been flirted with before, but never in so blunt a manner. Though she could admire his intelligence – and if she were totally honest with herself, she _did_ find him attractive – she knew he wasn't going to be sticking around, and she wasn't one for meaningless flings. And so, she let out a little huff of air and said, "I'll show you to your rooms for the night," and when he was just about to swallow, she finished with, "What time shall I knock you up tomorrow?"

It had the desired effect as Dean tried to swallow and breathe at the same time, earning himself a sinusful of lukewarm coffee. While Dean coughed and sneezed the coffee out of his nose, Sam pounding lightly on his back and torn between concerned and amused, Harry couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. "Around eight-thirty, Hermione, that way all the students should be out of the way."

After Dean caught his breath and the phrasing explained, Hermione once again led the Winchesters, this time accompanied by Harry, through the school to the visitor's quarters. When they were gone, Minerva closed the door behind them and gave in to her own urge to laugh at what had transpired.

* * *

**A/N2:** I do hope that Hermione's reactions clue everyone in on the fact that she _won't_ be getting together with Dean. Though, in the few crossovers of this type I've managed to find, pairing Hermione with either Winchester seems to be fanon, I'd rather not. There's no reason to make the Hunter's Trio a quartet.

Reviews are fantabulous motivation for a blocked writer to get up off her lazy arse and get to the writing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And here's the next installment for you. I hope you enjoy it. Just FYI, though Sam and Hermione spend a bit of time alone together in this chapter, I hope it's relatively clear from previous chapters that I'm _not pairing her with the boys_. Thanks for your time, and Happy Reading!

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Back and Forth…_

Wednesday, October 24, 2007 dawned with a double bang. The first was a loud knocking on the heavy wooden door to the suite wherein Dean and Sam were asleep on separate beds in the bedroom and Harry was sprawled across the sofa in the sitting area. The second bang was a loud clap of thunder which seemed to be the signal for the skies outside to open up with a downpour so thick it was hard to see more than fifty feet from the castle windows.

Harry answered the knock at the door and found that it was Hermione. "Good morning," she greeted him. "Eight-thirty, as promised."

"Punctual as ever," Harry replied and stepped to the side to let her in. He yawned a little. "How long has it been raining?"

"Not sure. It was raining when I got up at six, but there wasn't any thunder until just now," Hermione sat herself down on the end of the sofa. "Perhaps you ought to hold off on retrieving the bottle until the rain stops."

Harry shook his head and yawned again. "Why?"

"Well, you told me that Slytherin's Chamber is rather far under the school. With all this rain, how do you know it won't be flooded?"

Harry scrubbed a hand across his face before taking a moment to pop his neck. Hermione winced at the crunching noise. "The Chamber is deep, Hermione. Deeper than even the lowest levels of the dungeon. I'm pretty sure it's directly under part of the Black Lake, too, and if the lake didn't flood it, I doubt some rain is gonna do it." He yawned a third time.

Hermione sighed, torn between amusement at Harry's altogether too obvious need for caffeine and concern about the reason behind why he had to return to the UK. "You know, if you need coffee, Dobby still works here."

Harry winced a little and a humorless smile surfaced on his face, "All things being equal, Hermione, I would rather _not_ let Dobby know I'm here. He's a likable enough guy, sure, but I know that if he finds out I'm here, somehow he'll end up going back to the US with me, and that just wouldn't work out well… I can just imagine people's reactions to seeing a house elf riding behind me on my motorcycle."

Hermione laughed outright at that mental image. "I see what you mean. How about you go wake up your friends, and I'll get some breakfast delivered?"

"Sounds good to me," Harry stood, stretched, and padded across the sitting room to the closed door of the bedroom.

* * *

"You can't do this! You won't get away with it!"

Remus sighed and returned to preparing his own breakfast. Draco's shouting was starting to grate on his nerves, but he had promised not to do anything until Harry returned. The younger Malfoy had information. Well, they were pretty sure he had the information they needed. And he wasn't going anywhere until they got that information. In the mean time, however, Remus had to put up with the half-baked threats and childish yelling from his former wine cellar.

_How is it that Harry, who never asked for his place in our society and who never seems to catch a decent break, grew up to be a man anyone would be honored to call 'friend', and yet Draco, who had everything pretty much handed to him, seems to have stopped growing up at sixteen? A bratty sixteen, at that._

* * *

"So…" Dean said, peering down the pipe that had been revealed when the sinks slid out of the way, "just how're we gonna get back up?"

"Well," Harry replied, "the last time I went down there, Fawkes – a phoenix – carried us out, but since he disappeared when Dumbledore died, I don't think that's going to be a possibility this time."

Hermione huffed a little and pushed her way past Dean. "Honestly, are you a wizard or not?" She pulled out her wand and aimed it at the large pipe in the floor, said some Latin, and the pipe shifted, sprouting stairs.

"That works," Dean grinned at her.

"Come on," Harry said, starting down the pipe. "If memory serves, it's quite a ways."

Sam, who had been watching from a couple of paces away, took a step closer and glanced at the hole in the floor. In all honesty, he loathed things like sewers and basements. Though he normally didn't mind being taller than average, it did have some drawbacks; mainly the fact that in an underground situation, nine times out of ten, he ended up with knots in his back for weeks afterwards. Dean followed closely on Harry's heels, but stopped when he noticed that Sam wasn't right there behind him. "You comin' or not, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head a little. "Nah, figured one of us should stay up here and make sure the kids don't trip across this."

"See ya later," Dean smirked, "gigantor."

"Jerk," Sam replied with a smile.

"Bitch," Dean shot back, right on cue, before hurrying to catch up with Harry.

Sam watched the pipe until he could no longer hear the faint echoes of Harry and Dean's footsteps. Letting out a breath he looked up, a little surprised that Hermione was still there. She had a lightly amused expression on her face. "What?" he asked her.

"Nothing," she replied, shaking off the expression. "Just that though you and Dean don't look anything alike, it's obvious you're family."

Sam grinned, "What do you mean, we look nothing alike? I'll have you know we have the same toenails, the same blood type, and neither of us had wisdom teeth come in."

It had the desired effect and startled a laugh out of the librarian. "Not exactly what I meant, and I'm sure you know it!"

Sam shrugged, "Yeah. I know. Our dad told me I look a lot like his dad did when he was my age. Dean takes after Mom's side of the family. How about you? You got any brothers or sisters?"

Hermione shook her head, "No. Mom and Dad wanted a big family, but when they had me, there were too many complications, so I ended up being an only child."

* * *

"This place is a pit, dude."

"You don't have to tell _me_ that," Harry replied, stepping over a small boulder that had fallen a little further away from the rest of the mound which had previously blocked the path – the result of Lockhart's backfired spell all those years ago. He aimed his wandlight at the small hole he'd crawled through the last time he'd been in this area and sighed. Though he felt as though he hadn't grown an inch since his second year, the evidence now before him didn't bear that supposition out – the hole was far too small for him to shimmy through. "Well, come on. Let's get some of this shit out of the way, yeah?"

Dean was half a step ahead of him and had already started tossing the smaller rocks out of their way.

* * *

"Favorite movie?"

Hermione sighed from her place on the floor, leaning against one side of the door frame, "Oh, I haven't been to the cinema in _ages_. Last thing I saw in theater was… Hmm… _Titanic_, I think, summer before seventh year. I do have a soft-spot for _Wizard of Oz_, though. Never missed seeing it on the telly when it aired before I came to Hogwarts." She gestured in Sam's direction; he'd taken a similar position against the other side of the door frame, "Favorite food?"

"That one's easy, chocolate-chip cookies," Sam replied with a sad smile. "Favorite fictional book?"

"Again, easy. Terry Pratchett's Small Gods. While we're on the subject of books, how about your favorite non-fiction work?"

"Are we talking a published work, or do unpublished journals count, too?"

"Either."

"Okay, in that case, I'd have to say Bobby Singer's Hunter's journal. Though Dad's has information on a wider base of topics, Bobby's is easier to read. It's organized, too." Sam chuckled at a sudden memory, "Dean once summed up our dad's writing style pretty accurately; said 'he writes like freakin' Yoda'." Sam fell silent for a moment, trying to come up with the next question. "Okay, how about your favorite historical figure?"

* * *

Even with Harry's magic helping out a little, moving the rocks and boulders out of the way was taking far longer than anticipated. Harry and Dean paused for a break, surveying how much they had left to do before they could continue onwards and, almost simultaneously, let out a groan.

* * *

"I spy with my little eye… Something that begins with the letter 'S'."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Sink. Try not to be so obvious next time. My turn."

* * *

When they finally managed to move the last of the rubble out of the way, it didn't take long to traverse the corridors and eventually end up in the actual Chamber of Secrets. It hadn't changed much in the years since Harry had last seen it. There were a couple of large bones from the basilisk scattered around, and it's skull still sat where it had fallen, and there was a lingering odor in the air, but other than that, it was practically identical to how Harry remembered it. Snake-decorated pillars, pools of water, odd greenish light whose source was unknown, and the large statue of Salazar still existed. Even the stain on the floor from where Harry had stabbed Tom Riddle's diary was just as Harry remembered, though the ink had dried into tacky hardness and no longer puddled on the stone.

"So, just where is this den we need to find?" Dean asked, looking around.

"Inside the statue," Harry gestured before continuing on in parseltongue, "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four." As the statue's mouth started to open, Harry had a bad moment, remembering how the last time he'd seen this happen, he'd immediately been thrown into a fight for his life. Glancing towards the snake skull to remind himself that it wasn't going to happen again, he stepped towards the statue. Dean followed close behind.

* * *

Sam glanced at his watch. "They've been gone a long time. Should we be getting worried?"

Hermione shook her head, checking her own watch. "No. Not yet, anyway. If they're not back before I have to open the library at noon, then you can start worrying. As of now, they've still got an hour."

"Where were we?"

"Um… 'Budapest', I think. My turn. Timbuktu."

"Ukraine."

"England."

"Delaware."

* * *

Halfway up the massive statue, Dean paused in his climbing. _Hey! Wait just a damn minute here… Wasn't it _my_ turn to sit with the cute chick while Sammy did the hard stuff?_

* * *

"Nope," Sam replied. "Nineteen."

"Okay… Let me think a moment… Larger than a microwave, smaller than a house… Sometimes electrical… Okay, does it have wheels?"

"Usually."

"Is used for transportation?"

"Yes, and that was the last question. And the answer is…?"

"An automobile."

"Ding, ding, ding. Twenty points to the librarian. You got something yet?"

Hermione nodded, "Go ahead."

"Animal, vegetable, mineral, or other?"

"Other."

* * *

"You know, the faculty here ought to figure out a way to get another entrance to this place made," Harry commented, looking around the room hidden within Slytherin's statue. "Most of these journals were written by Slytherin, himself." Though the room had been used as a den by the basilisk, it obviously hadn't begun its life as a snake's home. The walls were lined with dusty book shelves, a massive fireplace graced one corner, and a large wooden desk and rotting leather chair stood in the opposite corner.

"Dude, can we focus?" Dean asked, looking around the office. "'Cause I don't see nothin' that looks like a stone bottle." He was beginning to get a little snippy. He was tired, hadn't had near enough caffeine, and there was a series of knots across his shoulders from moving all those damn rocks earlier. He just wanted to find the damn thing and head back up to their room for a long shower and another pot of coffee, not necessarily in that order. _Hell, I wouldn't say no to talking with that Hermione girl for a while, either._

Harry snapped the journal he'd been leafing through shut with a _snap_. "Too right, mate. Now, Albus probably sent the bottle down here with Fawkes. So, if I were a phoenix, where would I leave a priceless artifact?"

"That's a thought," Dean said, striding across the room, his footfalls sending up minor clouds of dust from the once thick green carpet that covered the stone floor. That was something else he was getting irritated with – the dust. Sure, from time to time, he and Sammy had to deal with dusty, abandoned old houses in the middle of nowhere, but there was a good four inches worth of difference between the dust he was used to dealing with and what was present in the 'den'.

"Whacha thinking?" Harry joined Dean next to the fireplace.

"Firebird, fireplace. Ashes, maybe?"

Harry shrugged and focused his wandlight into the cold fireplace grate. There weren't any ashes, however. It held several logs in a cast-iron cradle. Dean knelt and poked his head into the opening. It was too dark to see if anything else was hidden in the fireplace. Waiting for a sneeze that had caught him off-guard to go away, Dean pulled his head back from the fireplace and snagged Harry's wand out of his hand. "Gimme that for a sec."

Harry opened his mouth to object, but the words got tangled up somewhere behind his tonsils. _But… but… It's my wand and my spell and shouldn't it have canceled itself when he grabbed it from me but it's still running but that shouldn't be possible unless he was a mage, too, but he's a muggle, isn't he?_

"Yahtzee," Dean interrupted Harry's confused train of thought by reemerging from the fireplace with a leather-wrapped bundle in one hand, Harry's still-glowing wand in the other. He thrust the wand back into Harry's hand and unrolled the plain brown leather to reveal a small black bottle, roughly eight inches high and four inches around the base, tapering down to only an inch or so around the mouth. Writing that Dean didn't recognize encircled the widest portion of the base and the stopper, carved from the same black stone as the bottle, was decorated with Celtic knotwork. "Well, it looks like the drawing from the paper with the anagram," Dean said, looking up at Harry.

Harry was staring at his wand with a puzzled expression. Dean snapped his fingers, "Dude, Earth to Harry."

"What?" Harry tore his gaze from the wand and met Dean's eyes.

"This _is_ what we've been bustin' our asses lookin' for, right?"

Harry looked at the bottle and nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, that's it."

Dean quickly wrapped it back in the leather and stood up, tucking the bottle into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. "Good. Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

"Weirdest 'normal' thing you ever came across."

Sam thought for a moment, "The average caterpillar has over two thousand muscles, but us lowly humans only have about seven hundred. You?"

"The fact that, kilogram for kilogram, a burger from a fast-food joint costs more than a new car."

Sam chuckled, "I didn't know that. It's right up there with how come Hawaii has an interstate?"

"Don't know, but I've always wondered why there isn't any mouse-flavored cat food. I mean, there's fish, chicken, and cheese. Turkey, shrimp, liver, and beef. I even once happened across a gourmet line that had pheasant and rabbit, but nothing mouse- or rat-flavored."

"Hey, you _could_ always do it yourself. Get rich off it."

Hermione chuckled, "Could, I guess."

"Could what?" Harry asked, his head poking out of the pipe in the floor.

"Get rich off of mouse-flavored cat food," Hermione replied climbing to her feet.

Sam followed her example while Harry finished exiting the pipe. Dean popped out right after him. "So, did you find it?" Sam asked.

Dean grinned, "Of course. Now, let's go find some lunch and some caffeine."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Harry said.

* * *

The next day – Thursday, October 24, 2007 – Sam, Dean, and Harry returned to Remus' house in London. After verifying that they had, indeed, located the Aroliantivashi, Harry inquired as to how Remus' 'guest' was doing.

"He's still the foul little brat I remember teaching back in '93," Remus replied, not mincing any words. "In between bouts of trying to break down the door, he's constantly shouting 'you're not going to get away with this' and 'have you any idea who I am' among other, less pleasant, things. Please tell me he's not staying much longer." The pleading with which Remus laced his last sentence was almost funny.

Harry grinned, "No, he's not gonna stick around too much longer. I promise. I think we've left him alone long enough to make him worry, so I figure sometime today we'll interrogate the fucktard." With that settled, the Hunters headed up to their respective rooms to unpack their overnight bags.

Most of the day passed relatively quietly. Dean phoned Bobby and brought him up to speed on what was happening before kicking back and helping himself to Remus' television. Sam curled up on Remus' sofa, reading one of the man's novels and ignoring the cheesy horror movie Dean had selected. Harry was rummaging around in his room for something and Remus spent his time working on his latest book.

When Harry finally managed to locate whatever it was he'd been after, he waited until Dean's movie finished before clearing his throat. "Shall we get this show on the road?"

* * *

Draco was hungry, thirsty, stiff, sore, cold, smelly, and thoroughly _sick_ of the dungeon room or whatever it was that he was locked within. He wasn't sure what was worse, his parchment-dry throat or the headache building behind his eyes. Either one by itself was enough to be pure torture, but the both of them together… He sighed and curled a little tighter on himself. Whoever it was – _Potter_, a voice in his head whispered, _it has to have been Potter_ – that stuck him here was smart, masochistic, sure, but _smart_. They'd taken not just his wand, but his emergency portkey, too. To top it all off, they'd left him in nothing more than his underpants, thus ensuring that even if he did somehow manage to get out of his stone-walled prison, he wouldn't manage to go very far.

He startled out of a light doze with the sound of the door slamming shut. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he smelled it before he could see it. Water. Cold, clear, fresh water. Straining his eyes in the gloom of his prison, the only light coming from the tiny crack under the door, he spotted a glass on the floor. Draining half of it in one go, he managed to exacerbate the headache thudding in time with his pulse, but he didn't care. His stomach lurched a little as the icy water hit it, but Draco willed it to accept the liquid. It was a matter of minutes before the glass was as dry as his throat had been.

Diluted as it had been, it took a moment or two for the veritaserum which had tainted the water to hit Draco's system. When it did, however, Draco had only enough time to think, _bugger_, before a thick fog seemed to wrap itself around his brain. He paid absolutely no attention whatsoever to the questions Potter and his friends asked of him. It didn't matter what he said; if he managed to get out of this situation in one piece, his Lord was going to eviscerate him, probably after a good round of the cruciatus.

Sometime near the end of Potter's questions, there was a minor argument between the werewolf and the two guys Draco didn't know. The part of the blonde's mind which wasn't answering questions and also wasn't affected by the truth potion, was too wrapped up with trying to figure out if there was any way he could plausibly escape his Lord's wrath for having been caught. After thoroughly examining his options, that one tiny corner of his mind checked in with a succinct, _We're screwed._

After spending his entire life trying to make sure he was on the _winning_ side of the War, he'd thought he'd done well. Potter – though he loathed the git – for a short while had seemed to be the sure bet, back when he was still an idealistic teenager, but an overheard conversation regarding some of the Dark Lords plans had changed that perception. So Draco, in the tradition of all true Slytherins, had changed his stance and gone back to the Death Eaters, claiming it had all been part of his 'master plan' – which it _had _been, but not quite in the way the Death Eaters took it to mean. Draco's Master Plan™ had simply included one driving goal: Stay Alive. It had worked, too. Or so he'd thought. Though Potter had managed to apparently defeat the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters had firm control of the Ministry, and so the boy hero had been banished. It was only a couple of years later that it was revealed that the Dark Lord wasn't as gone as the public thought.

When Draco'd caught sight of Potter in that muggle club, he knew he'd managed to back the wrong horse. The _only_ reason Potter would have returned to the UK was to finally put an end to the Dark Lord. Regardless of his personal opinion on all things Potter, Draco could tell that Potter wasn't going to lose. Not this time, possibly not ever again. If he'd been asked, he wouldn't have known where this impression came from, only that he wished he could change his mind again.

In any sort of wartime scenario, those individuals who act as spies aren't trusted all that much by either side. Nor were those who switched sides, even if they weren't actually spies. Anyone in Draco's shoes, who had already gone from one side to the other and back, knew that they'd used up their allotment of switching. It was far too late in the game to go back to the other side. Ergo, as Potter's questions finally ended, Draco wondered if the Death Eaters would bother to look for him in Siberia. He'd always wanted to see Russia.

As fate would have it, he wouldn't get the chance.

* * *

**A/N2:** And here's where this chapter told me, 'I'm done.' I'm a little concerned about the bit with Draco there at the end, but my muse tells me that it should become clear with the next chapter. And, speaking of which, if the next chapter behaves, it should be up soon – within a week or two would be my guess, but it might take longer. I hope to have a battle and some other plot points surface in it, but this story's already about three times longer than I intended it to be originally, and so I really have no clue.

I was also asked to let my readers know (many of whom also read aramie.greyson's work) that the fabulous Aramie has been quite ill lately, but when she's back to a hundred percent, the next chapter for her 'Raising Harry' saga will be posted. So, if y'all could spread the word, she'd be much obliged. Thanks.

Reviews are fantabulous and I enjoy all of them immensely. Thanks to everyone who takes the time to review, and a further thanks to all the lurkers out there who simply read (I do keep tabs on my hit-counters).


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** A big part of why this was so late in coming has to do with the whole moving-across-the-country thing I've got in the works, but a bigger bit of it has to do with how tied up in knots I am about the Season Finale tonight. I've watched (and rewatched) all the promo vids I could find and read all the spoilers I could lay my hands on and the only conclusion I can come to is that they're gonna kill Dean at the end of the ep. I really really really _really_ don't wanna see it come to that (c'm on, Kripke! There's a bajillion ways ya coulda got him outta his deal! We know you read fanfiction!) Every time I even think about Dean not surviving… Well, let's just say that I get choked up. (Shifty look.) Yeah. 'Choked up' should cover it, just don't ask my pillowcase to corroborate that claim. (And has anyone else seen the claim that Kripke only wants Show to last _five_ seasons? WTF? Is this for real, or does anyone know? Because if it _is _the case, then there's only forty-four more episodes – not counting tonight's – in the making; am I the only one who feel as though that's _far_ too few a number for our boys?)

This chapter threw a couple of curveballs at me, so I hope the wait was worth it. I know I promised a battle in this one, but it's been pushed to the next one. Oh, and before I forget, this tale is rapidly approaching its climax. Guessing, I'd say somewhere between three and five more chapters before I'm on to the third part of the story.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_So, this god walks into a kitchen…_

"You can't just kill him!" Though Remus disliked Draco, he didn't approve of the extreme viewpoint expressed by the Winchesters.

"Why not?" Dean shot back. He understood that they were in what could rapidly become a full-fledged war, and even civilians got killed in wartime situations. This Draco kid was definitely _not_ a civilian – he was, in fact, one of the Bad Guys.

Much to Dean's surprise, Sam agreed with him. Sam's reasoning had less to do with the wider viewpoint Dean had than the fact that Sam knew that the blonde was responsible for the blank stare in Ginny's features, for her total _lack_ of awareness. "He's a threat," Sam pointed out. "We can't just keep him here, and if we let him go, then the information he told us becomes useless."

Harry agreed quite vehemently with Dean and Sam, but his reasoning was purely personal. He wanted Draco _dead_. Preferably after a lengthy, messy torture session. He remained quiet however, while Remus argued with the Winchesters.

"He's still a _person_," Remus protested. "He's just a _kid_."

Sam huffed out an ironic, humorless chuckle. "He's older than I am, and I like to think of myself as an adult, so don't give me that 'just a kid' line 'cause I ain't buying it."

The four of them had finished their interrogation of Draco roughly fifteen minutes earlier, and the argument had covered the same main points at least three times already. Harry slouched in his chair at the kitchen table and dug out his cigarette case.

"Be that as it may, he's still _young_ – is that better? – he still has the potential to _change_!" Remus was starting to lose his temper and rummaged angrily around in the cabinets for the makings for a pot of tea.

"And that means absolutely jack squat right now," Dean replied, mentally resolving to talk to Sam later. He was a little unnerved about Sam's attitude regarding Draco; under any normal circumstance, Sam would be making the same arguments that Remus was voicing. "Just 'cause he's got the _potential_ to change don't mean he's _gonna_." Dean let out a sigh and leaned on the counter. "Look, I get that you wizards live longer than us regular folk. I also get that you taught this guy when he was still a kid. I get that you're basically a good person. Really, I _get_ all this. But what _you_ don't seem to get is that Sammy's right – we can't keep him here for too much longer and if we let him go, then what he's told us is _fucking worthless_!"

Remus slammed the kettle down on the stove and lit the burner while filling the kettle with water from his wand. "No," he argued, "I _do_ understand that. You don't seem to realize that I've lived through this _twice_ before – I understand that sacrifices must sometimes be made for the greater good. What I don't understand is why you're so bent on _killing_ someone!"

Harry tapped his cigarette's filter end on the tabletop twice as both Sam and Dean simultaneously voiced similar thoughts, referring back to the whole 'threat' aspect. As he lifted the smoke to his mouth, Remus finally noticed that Harry hadn't chimed-in on the dispute. "What about you, Harry? You've been awfully quiet through all this. What do you want to do with our 'guest'?" the werewolf asked while setting teacups on a tray.

Harry lit his cigarette and took a deep puff before letting it out slowly. "What I _want_," he replied, his voice icy calm and sporting a dark look in his eyes, "is to slowly strip his skin from his flesh before sprinkling a mixture of fire-ants, salt, and lemon juice on his exposed muscles. What I _want_ is to pull each of his fingernails out with a rusty pair of pliers. What I _want_ is to banish his ribcage and watch him slowly suffocate. What I _want_ is to string him up by his balls and slowly drop him in a vat of hydrochloric acid. What I _want_ is to bind his soul to madness." Harry flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette into the small glass ashtray he'd scrounged up the first evening at Remus' place. Glancing from Dean to Remus to Sam and back, he continued on his rant, cigarette smoke giving a blue-gray form to his words, "He fucked over my life almost as thoroughly as Riddle did – hell, Riddle coulda took lessons from that fucking asshole; Draco didn't go all-out with the elaborate planning, he just hit me fast and hard and right out of the blue. He didn't pussy-foot around." Harry ashed his cigarette again before allowing his restless gaze to land on Sam. "What I _want_ is _vengeance_." Harry took another drag off his smoke. "But what we're gonna do – what _I'm_ gonna do – is make sure he's not a threat before letting him go."

After several moments of silence, the kettle began to whistle. This seemed to be the signal for Dean to ask, "How?"

A malicious smirk surfaced on Harry's face. "Just watch and see," he replied, finishing his cigarette and grinding out the butt in the ashtray. Taking a slow breath, he whispered as though to himself, "Just watch and see," before abruptly leaving the kitchen.

* * *

It took Harry nearly an hour to recall which book held the ritual he needed and a further two hours to scrounge up the necessary supplies for what he had planned for the bastard in the cellar. Either it was going to work, or it wasn't. If it didn't, he'd go with plan B, which was to do to that asshole what he'd done to Ginny. Drumming up the necessary hate to get the job done wouldn't be an issue, though evading the aurors who would certainly respond in nothing flat to an Unforgivable being logged in the system might prove a tad problematical.

While Harry'd been rummaging around in his room, Remus was 'working' on his book, but in fact was simply sitting at his desk, staring at the steps on the other side of the room which lead to the bedrooms upstairs. Dean had flopped on the sofa and was channel-surfing at a rate which normally would have had Sam smacking him, had Sam not been drawn back into a fictionalized version of the events during Harry's third year at Hogwarts – Remus' first book, titled, somewhat tongue-in-cheek when one knew the author really _was_ a werewolf, Of Wolf and Man.

When the shortest of the four of them finally reappeared carrying, somewhat incongruously, the backpack which usually housed his computer, all three jumped to their feet. "So, what's the plan, Stan?" Dean asked.

"I thought I made my feelings on plans quite clear, Dean," Harry replied, an expression on his face that could, in no way, be confused with a smile. "In any case," he aborted his attempt at levity, "I don't feel as though any of us are really in a position to say what should be done with that fucking prick, therefore we'll leave it in the hands of magic herself."

Remus blanched, "You didn't –"

"Yes, Remus, I _did_, I _am_, and I _will_," Harry interrupted before the werewolf could finish his sentence.

Remus, never really one to be deterred from speaking his mind when he felt it was warranted, tried again. "You dare to wake –"

But, once again, Harry cut him off. Loudly. "Remus, if you'd been paying closer attention, you'd know they're _already awake_. This isn't just our fight anymore, Moony! This isn't just about me and Riddle, about Dean and demons, or even about the personal issues I have with that motherfucking cocksucker in the cellar! This… this… Whatever the fuck you wanna call it is just the tip of the damn iceberg, and anyone who hasn't had their heads in the sand can fucking _feel_ it!"

Both Dean and Sam were forcibly reminded of what Ellen had said after that case involving the twins who could mind-control people all those months ago, _This isn't just your war, this is war. Now, something big and bad's coming and it's coming fast, and their side holds all the cards. Now, at best all we got is us. Together. No secrets or half-truths here._ It was enough to make either of them wonder if maybe, just maybe, Ellen didn't have some touch of mind-magic herself.

It was at times like this when the evidence that Harry was no longer a lost teenager was shoved in Remus' face. He deflated a little as he realized that Harry was right. "You're right," he said it out loud, and the words left a bitter residue on his tongue.

"I mean –" Harry stopped short when he heard Remus' admission. "What?"

Remus let a tight, bittersweet smile surface. "I said, you're right. And…" Remus dropped his gaze to the pile of papers on his desk, idly wondering if he'd ever get to finish the book before swallowing and forcing the rest out, "I'll help. Merlin save me, but… I… I've felt it, too. I just didn't want it to be true, so I ignored it."

Dean cleared his throat, "Um… Someone wanna clue me in here?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah."

Harry shook his head, "Most of it can come later. For the time being, I just need you to come with me."

It didn't take long for at least some of the Winchester's questions to be answered. When the quartet arrived in the basement kitchen, Remus quickly set to clearing the floor while Harry stunned and bound Draco. The two wizards, working from an archaic-looking tome, soon had all manner of ancient symbols drawn on the stone floor surrounding the blonde. While they were finishing the set-up, Harry took the time to explain, "It's the _Ritus Iustum_. Loosely translated, it means 'ceremony of justice' or 'rite of right'. The short form is that it calls on an outside force to judge and sentence the accused. Was a common spell during the heyday of the Roman Empire, but was buried along with the Roman pantheon of gods when Christianity arrived on the scene."

Peering over Harry's shoulder to get a glimpse of the text contained within the book, Sam asked, "What outside power?"

Remus answered, "According to a couple of transcripts, the Romans believed it to be the gods, themselves. Most philosophers who have studied the ritual, however, believe that it actually called up a physical representation of magic; which is the current 'final say' on the matter. It hasn't been successfully cast since the third century. At least, there have been no records of it being successfully cast in all that time."

"So, how do you know it's going to work?" Dean took it on himself to ask the most obvious question.

Harry met Dean's eyes with a grim smile, "I never bought the belief that it called up magic. I mean, does water have a consciousness? How about fire? No, they don't. They might seem as though they do, and both are forces that can be directed and used for either good or evil, but in and of themselves, they are just that – _force_. Just like magic."

"So, you think you can get it to work because you believe it actually summons a god?" There was a noticeable taint of incredulity in Dean's voice.

Harry didn't deign to notice the disbelief; he simply nodded. "Intent is what powers magic, you know. It's not just waving a stick and saying the words – you have to _mean_ them. And if you believe hard enough, then the words don't matter. Sometimes, belief is all you need."

This was getting into an area wherein Dean was rather uncomfortable; the topic of faith and belief in something greater than himself had always been something of an abstract concept for the hunter, and that was long before he found himself somehow tied to a pagan deity. Though, if he were completely honest with himself, he found pagan gods and goddesses easier to believe in than the Judeo-Christian concept of god; the pagan ones weren't perfect, they had their moments of weakness, and so were far easier to relate to than a vague, nebulous 'supreme good'.

On the other side of the Winchester coin was Sam, who never questioned the fact that there were gods out there. There were demons; he _knew_ that, had irrefutable proof to their existence, therefore there _had_ to be gods. Though he prayed every day – had even admitted to Dean that he did so – he never really addressed those prayers to any specific deity – had they been mail, they would be addressed to 'occupant' – simply to whomever was listening.

As for Remus, he'd been raised Christian – Church of England, specifically – though he had defected to the wizarding world's tendency to believe solely in magic shortly after arriving at Hogwarts as a child. He knew, as all wizardkind did, that the so-called myths regarding the plethora of pagan gods and goddesses out there were actually histories, though not necessarily histories of humanity or even of Earth. He further knew that the gods detailed in those histories had, for the most part, fallen into a slumber in the wake of Christianity's aggressive march across Europe. Without followers, without _believers_, those beings whom humanity labeled as gods tended to sleep until called forth, sometimes by another name, and almost always resented being woken. Until Harry had drawn his attention to the fact that they were – Merlin help them – already awake, Remus' main concern was what sort of retaliation Harry would be facing for waking them. But, like a sound hovering just on the threshold of hearing, once his attention had been drawn to it, Remus could sense the collective awareness of dozens, hundreds, maybe even _thousands_ of these deities tickling along the edges of his mind. _It'll work,_ he thought._ Merlin save us, but it'll work. And I don't know if I really want to know why they're awake, but something tells me that ignorance is not bliss, not in this. Maybe not ever again._

Twenty minutes, twelve candles, six passages of the most tongue-twisty Latin Sam had ever heard, and one blinding, soundless flash of light later and the kitchen was up one occupant.

"YOU!" Dean couldn't help himself from shouting.

The trickster which had once plagued Crawford Hall at Springfield University in Springfield, Ohio – and, more importantly, at least to the Winchesters, was supposed to have died there – stood in the circle of chalk marks, just behind the still-unconscious Draco. He laughed. "Easy there, bucko; no need to get all worked up. Don't you know you can't kill a god?" While Dean fumed, the trickster took the time to look around. He sighed, "Damn. I hate getting summoned to things like this."

"Wait, you know Dean?" Harry had to ask.

The trickster, who was wearing a black silk house coat and fuzzy, pink bunny slippers, slid a hand into the robe's pocket and withdrew a monster-sized chocolate bar. He unwrapped a corner and took a bite. "Sure do," he said through the chocolate. "Sam, too. They weren't too happy with how I was handling my job and thought they'd end me. Hah! As if! I been around the block a time or two. Anyway," he nodded to the blonde at his feet and nudged him with a slipper, "I'm sure talkin' shop ain't why you called me. Who is this dick?"

"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, resolving to get a more detailed explanation from the brothers later.

The trickster grinned, swallowed the chocolate, and let out a low whistle. "Awesome. Always wanted to get my hands on a Malfoy. Dickiest of dicks, you know. Anansi's gonna be _so_ pissed he didn't come. Coyote, too, for that matter – though he _still_ owes me a round for takin' care of Custer for him, so I s'pose he can't complain too awful much." He glanced at the chalk markings again, "Ya mind if I take a seat?"

"You have to ask?" Sam, much like Dean earlier, just couldn't help himself from asking the question.

"Hey, I'm not without manners, you know," the trickster actually looked a little hurt.

Harry, still stuck on the fact that the Winchesters had apparently tried to hunt a god, shook his head and pulled himself back to the here-and-now. "Um, yeah. Go ahead."

The trickster snapped his fingers and a comfortable, overstuffed, armchair appeared. "No sense in wastin' daylight. So… Harry, right?" Harry nodded. "Harry, why doncha tell me what your gripe with Malfoy here," he nudged the blonde again, "is, then I can get down to business." The last was said with a grin of unholy glee.

While Harry described – as the ritual recommended – in great detail the list of crimes he knew Draco to have committed, Dean struggled with getting his temper under control, and Sam watched and wondered just how many other things they supposedly killed might have fooled them the way the trickster had. Remus, though, was merely in shock that the ritual had _worked_. There was a _god_ in his kitchen. Granted, said god wasn't anything like how he pictured a deity to be, but still… There was a _god_ in his _kitchen_. Really, it was enough to give anyone reason to pause – if, of course, they weren't a Hunter.

After several minutes of listening intently to Harry, the trickster waved a hand, finished the last bite of his chocolate, and leaned over to Draco. "Wakey-wakey," he shook the blonde's shoulder. Normally, a stupefy needed an ennervate to counteract its effects, but apparently, the will of a god overrode the simple spell.

Draco came-to all at once with no halfway mark between unconsciousness and awareness. It didn't mean he wasn't confused, however. "Wha–"

"No, none of that," the trickster interrupted by laying his hand over Draco's mouth. The trickster sighed, "Now, for the boring bit. You've been accused, Draco Malfoy, of a list of crimes too lengthy to go into right now. I, Loki, Keeper of the Keys of Ragnaröck, Sly-One, Sky Walker, Lie-Smith, Shape-Changer, Sky Traveler, Foxy-One, Sly-God, Wizard of Lies, Lopt, Bringer of the First Curse, God of Mischief, Trickster, God of Discord, son of Fárbauti and Laufey, mate of Angrboda and father to Fenrir, Jörmungandr, and Hel, husband to Sigyn and father to Narfi and Vali, mate to Svadilfari and dam to Sleipnir, Sworn Brother to Odin, have bore witness to the accusation and have read your spirit. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

A million things flashed through Draco's mind while the unassuming form of the trickster listed his names and connections but only two things stood out with any clarity. The first was _I did what I thought I had to in order to survive_. The second wasn't quite so clear, but was, perhaps, more honest than the first and if put into words may have run along the lines of regret for what he'd done to Ginny, and in turn, to Harry. Before he could put any of these thoughts into speech, Loki shook his head. "No, I see you don't have a defense – no reasons, merely excuses. I hate excuses, even if I'm not above using them myself if the situation calls for it. And so, Draco Malfoy, I, Loki, yadda-yadda-yadda of the Æsir do hereby sentence you, son of Lucius Malfoy, son of man, to see things from the other side." He punctuated his proclamation with a grin and a dry snap of his fingers. Draco disappeared from Remus' kitchen with no flash of light, no pop of apparation; he didn't fade away. There was nothing even remotely resembling 'fanfare' to mark his absence. Loki climbed to his feet, waving his chair back into nonexistence, and leveled a self-satisfied grin at Harry.

"If I may ask, just what did you do to him?" Harry was honestly curious.

Loki shrugged and retrieved another massive chocolate bar from his pocket. "Merely made sure the punishment fit the crime – you know, my usual. If ya really need the specifics, I simply wiped all evidence of him from the hearts, minds, and records of men. Only you three will ever know he existed. He will, of course, remember who he is, but without his magic, I doubt he will ever get anyone to believe him. Besides," Loki's grin grew to blinding proportions, "he always wanted to see Russia. How could I refuse?"

During the course of Loki's interaction with the blonde git, Dean had managed to get his anger at being tricked under control and burst into guffaws of laughter. "So, lemme get this straight. You dropped him in Russia with no ability to prove who he is and without his wand and made the rest of the world forget he even existed? And, just guessin' here, but you left him in his underwear, too, right?"

Loki nodded, "Right-o, amigo. Only, you don't quite seem to realize that I didn't drop him there without his _wand_. I cut him off from his magic. Totally and completely. The closest he'll ever get to magic again is if he manages to make enough of himself without it he can afford a Swedish massage."

At that, Remus finally found his tongue. "You turned him into a _muggle_?" It was nearly whispered and laced through with breathless awe. "Not a squib, but a _muggle_?"

Loki shrugged, "God here, remember? Anyway, this has been fun, but I need to track down a wayward son of mine with whom you've had an unfortunate encounter. Any idea of where I could find him?"

Remus looked confused for half a second before the lengthy list of Loki's relations came back to him. His eyes narrowed and he literally growled, "No. I don't know where _he_ is. If I ever do find him –"

"Just hold it, bucko. Some things are outta your hands. Fenrir's fate – indeed, most of the Æsir's fates – were set from the get-go." With the hand not holding the chocolate, Loki reached back into his robe pocket and pulled out a simple gold chain. "You find him, you call me. Just break the chain," he handed it to Remus. "If ya do, I'll see what I can do about that curse he left you with."

"Huh?" was the only reply Remus could come up with.

"You do me a favor, I do you a favor – that's how this works. This thing with Malfoy? Hell, that was just a bonus, in my opinion. His whole family ain't too well-liked by most of us. But, all things aside, I really should get going. I'm missing one of my favorite TV programs." With a final snap of his fingers, the trickster was gone, almost as though he had never been there in the first place.

"That was…" Sam searched fruitlessly for a word to describe the encounter.

"_So_ not what I expected," Harry supplied even as Dean chimed in with, "Extremely fucking bizarre."

And, really, what more could either Remus or Sam add to that?

* * *

**A/N2:** Loki showing up is one of those curveballs I mentioned. Originally, I'd intended the ritual to bring the triumvirate of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva; making the whole thing rather solemn and serious, but after digging into the characters' heads regarding that hornets' nest of faith… Well, apparently my muse wanted some levity. Who was I to argue with her awesomeness? Also, all of the familial connections Loki lists come from his Wikipedia page, just in case you wanted to know, as do most of his alternative names.

Reviews are totally awesome and even seeing my hits go up makes me happy. So, if you have something to say, please do, and even if you don't, please know that your reading of this hasn't gone unnoticed or unappreciated.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Okay, so this is the first post-S3 finale chapter. What did I think of the finale? Well, if you're really interested in the long version, it can be found at my livejournal (auriliawestlake). Short form is this: Dean, oh _Dean_! NOOOOOO!! Kripke, you Magnificent Bastard™!

Insofar as this chapter's concerned, I know I mentioned a battle, but it didn't exactly play out that way when I wrote it. I had wanted to do a knock-down, drag-out type of confrontation between our hero group and a selection of the baddies, but the boys' Slytherin sides were showing a bit and didn't like my idea of a full-frontal assault, so this chapter is what resulted. All told, I think it's better-done than my original idea would have been, and stays truer to how this universe's version of Harry (when combined with Sam'n'Dean) would handle the situation. I hope y'all agree.

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Friday, October 26, 2007…_

It was raining a little when Sam pulled himself from the depths of sleep. Dean was still snoring lightly in the other bed, not totally unexpected, as the four of them had been up late discussing options on their next move the night before, so he quietly got dressed and headed downstairs. Following his nose, he found a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen alongside a more-tired-than-normal Remus and an oddly energetic Harry. Neither of them was saying much; Sam thought he understood. The ambient energy suffusing the house was not dissimilar to that which had surrounded him, Dean, and their dad just about a year and a half earlier, the first time they'd gone after the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Unparalleled heights of anxiousness punctuated by moments of alternating hope – _One way or another, it'll _finally _be over_ – and despair – _What if we lose? What if something goes wrong? What if…?_. Sam could practically see the thoughts running circles in both of the other men's minds.

"Morning," Harry greeted the taller Winchester, his quiet tone at odds with his restlessly bouncing knee. "Sleep well?"

Sam shrugged and helped himself to a cup of caffeine. "Well enough. You sleep at all?"

Harry shook his head, "Too keyed up, I suppose. It's gonna end, _really_ end tonight. My entire life…"

"Yeah," Sam took a drink of his coffee. "You wait your whole life for a single moment and suddenly, it's tomorrow."

That brought a small smile to Harry's face, "Thought movie-quotes was Dean's area?"

"I'm not above using them, if the situation calls for it," Sam replied with an answering smile. Going to the cinema had been a rare treat for the Winchesters; _Deep Blue Sea_ was the last film he and Dean got to see together in theater before Sam had left for Stanford. "So… Do we know what we're going to be doing?"

Harry shrugged, "I figure I should head on over to the Greengrass estate, get a closer look and find what's going on. If I'm able to get enough information, we'll head back later tonight."

"Tonight?" Sam looked up from his mug. "Thought tonight was the full moon? No offense meant, of course," he glanced at Remus.

Remus shook his head, "None taken. Actually, it makes more sense to go in tonight than if we waited until tomorrow or later. Though I won't be able to use my wand in wolf form, I'll have a better chance of remaining undetected. My senses will be sharper, too." Remus suddenly sprang from his seat, "That reminds me! I almost forgot," he headed over to the counter next to the sink and retrieved a small wooden box. "I talked to Hagrid and got this for Dean's bow." He handed the box to Sam.

Sam opened the sliding lid and peered inside. It was a long, braided, white cord, coiled around itself. Harry glanced over and took a peak, "Who braided it?"

"Hagrid did," Remus replied, retaking his seat at the table.

"Really?" Skepticism surfaced in Harry's expression. "It seems too… delicate."

"Just because the man's half-giant doesn't mean he doesn't have a high level of manual dexterity," Remus gently chided his pseudo-godson.

Suddenly recalling the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas his first year at Hogwarts, Harry decided to let the topic drop. "Speaking of Dean, when d'ya think he'll wake up?"

Sam shrugged, "Really no way to tell for sure. He's always been good at snagging sleep whenever he could, especially if he knows he's gonna be busy all night."

As it turned out, Dean didn't wake up until nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. As such, he missed seeing Harry demonstrate his invisibility cloak and watching as Remus charmed a map, a pair of sunglasses, a mirror, and the hands-free headset from a cellular phone (though the phone itself was nowhere to be had) with an assortment of spells designed to allow the werewolf to keep tabs on where Harry was, exactly, on the Greengrass estate, and to allow for communication between Harry and the others.

In fact, Harry had been gone for just about twenty minutes before Dean appeared in the kitchen. Sam and Remus were alternatively monitoring the map and the mirror, both taking notes, though neither had commented on much so far. Dean snaked a mug of coffee before taking a seat next to Sam. "Whacha doin'?"

"Harry's scouting the Greengrass place," Sam replied, keeping his voice low, just in case Harry had to say anything about what he was doing. "He took a portkey to this town nearby and is walking there."

Dean swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and grimaced a little – the coffee wasn't all that fresh and had the distinctive, slightly burned flavor from having been kept hot too long. "I miss anythin' important?"

Sam shook his head as Remus motioned for them to both hush. The mirror showed a cobbled road, barely wide enough for a compact car, tunneling through a thick copse of trees. Harry's voice, a little tinny, reverberated through the glass, "I'm coming up on the main gate to the estate. They've got some _serious_ protective spells blanketing the area. I'll run a full diagnostic when I get to the gate."

While Remus took notes on the diagnostics Harry ran, Sam let Dean know about the cord for his new bow. Dean, still skeptical about the existence of unicorns, picked up the braided strand and shrugged a little. _Don't matter much if it's really what they say it is, but it is a well-worked bow cord._

Two hours later, roughly three o'clock in the afternoon, Harry returned. The next hour was spent in detailing the layout of the Greengrass estate, using a combination of conjured models and illusions. While Harry was pointing out potential hiding places, Severus showed with Remus' final dose of Wolfsbane for the month. He also had a small tidbit of information for the three hunters and the werewolf which boiled down to the fact that the Death Eaters, both those who had been Marked and those who hadn't, were beginning to converge in ever-growing numbers at the Greengrass manor. Snape, himself, had received an invitation to attend a 'business meeting' later that very week.

"So it's probably a good thing we're gonna get this bastard tonight, isn't it?" Harry commented, taking the time to light a cigarette.

"Indeed," Severus replied.

Sam looked up from studying the three-dimensional representation of the Greengrass estate which covered a portion of the kitchen table and let out a nearly inaudible, "Huh."

Dean glanced over and realized that his brother was wearing the same expression he did when all the puzzle-pieces of whatever case they happened to be working finally clicked. "Whacha thinkin', Sammy?"

Sam met his brother's gaze and nodded a little in the direction of the Potions Master. Dean grinned and echoed his brother's earlier, "Huh."

"What?" Remus queried.

Dean ignored the werewolf for the moment, "Y'know, that just might work."

Sam nodded, "Especially since they've already contacted him."

"What might work?" Remus tried again, but was ignored once more.

"If the numbers Harry saw today are typical…" Sam let a half-smile surface.

"Then it really wouldn't be all that hard, would it?" Dean blew out a puff of air to move Harry's cigarette smoke away from his nose.

"_What_ wouldn't be all that hard?" Remus asked, his voice a little louder than before.

"Quick and quiet – those guns you figured out, maybe. The bows. Coupla blades," Sam ticked the list off on his fingers.

"Quick and quiet," Dean agreed. "Chloroform?"

"Might work. We have any?"

Dean shook his head. "Not that I know of, but it can't be _that_ hard to find, can it?"

Though both Harry and Severus were enjoying watching Remus' curiosity and impatience grow to the point where the older man was very nearly vibrating, they were also at a loss as to what the Winchesters might be planning. "Would you please let the rest of us in on your scheme, guys? Though it could be entertaining, I don't think either of you really want to deal with Remus if he's ticked off," Harry flicked the ashes off his smoke and snubbed the butt in the ashtray when he realized it was far too short for another drag.

"Just a sec," Dean answered Harry before returning his attention to his brother. "Could go the bleach-and-ammonia route. Be easier to find the shit. Some of those little glass vials Harry's got, a couple of mason jars, and some superglue."

Sam nodded, "Probably the better route. Less of a chance of getting into it with the local police."

"My thoughts exactly."

By this point, Remus was very nearly ready to take drastic measures. Instead of acting out physically, like his inner wolf wanted, he lashed out verbally. "WHAT IN THE BLOODY NINE HELLS ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?"

After jumping a little at the unexpected volume, the Winchesters chuckled a little and Dean made a motion with his hand, indicating that Sam should take over the explanation. It didn't take long for him to outline the sketchy plan he and Dean had come up with.

* * *

"Have I ever mentioned just how much I hate plans?" Harry grumbled, his tone so far from the realm of 'good-natured' that it may as well have been in a different galaxy.

"Yeah, a time or two. We get it, dude. You don't like plans. Drop it," Dean wasn't feeling very charitable himself; he never did like the 'stupid costumes' that sometimes made his work easier, and the latest addition was bordering on absurd. Sam didn't seem to mind, but then again, Dean _knew_ his brother was keeping something from him, even if he couldn't figure out what. As a result, Sam had been surprisingly ruthless and intense when it came to this latest job. In truth, it was worrying the elder Winchester.

Severus glanced over his shoulder at his three… no, _four_ companions. Even in the low lighting conditions – it was just coming up on eleven at night – of the forested cobblestone lane, there was no mistaking his expression to mean 'shut the fuck up'. Sam was just behind and to the left of Snape, Dean was in a similar flanking position to the right, and Harry was between them. Remus, locked in his wolf form – which was half again as large as a normal wolf – followed directly behind Harry.

Both Winchesters were wearing a set of wizarding robes over their normal clothes, complete with a dark, hooded cloak. The extra layers, in addition to making them appear less 'muggle' also had the added benefit of concealing the small arsenal each carried on their person. Both Sam and Dean had one of the modified guns Dean had come up with, as well as their preferred pistols – the Colt with the mother-of-pearl grips for Dean and the stainless Taurus for Sam. Both of them also had an assortment of small blades and Sam had their crossbow slung over his shoulder and covered by the cloak where Dean had his bow. Regardless of his doubts over its supposed origin – his personal experience with it notwithstanding – it was a decent bow and there wasn't any reason Dean could come up with for him to leave it behind. The last item each brother carried was a small glass jar, half-filled with bleach, which had a glass vial of ammonia glued to the inside of the lid. Though both would have preferred to have more than one of the makeshift gas-bombs, they knew that it would likely prove problematical if their ruse was discovered too early – they were after the Bad Guys, a risky proposition under any circumstances, but there was no need to make it worse than it was.

It was only minutes later when the five of them reached the gates to the Greengrass estate. As had been the case during the day, there weren't any human guards, though each of the small group could feel the protective wards which covered the property tingle over their senses as they passed through the gate.

The group paused a few hundred yards into the property, just before the drive rounded a bend to reveal the Greengrass mansion. Severus, Sam, Dean, and Harry double-checked to make sure their watches were working properly – they were to meet up at three o'clock in the morning back at the gate – before Harry quickly slid his invisibility cloak over his shoulders. "Good luck, mates," he whispered.

"You too, Harry," Dean returned the well-wish.

Were it not for the fact that both Winchesters were looking for it, they would have missed the slight indentations Harry's boots made in the dirt next to the path. It was only a couple of moments before their friend had completely vanished.

"Here's hoping this goes well," Dean muttered before he and Sam slipped into the shadows provided by the forest on the side of the road opposite the direction Harry went.

Severus waited a couple of minutes, taking the time to ensure his occlumency was in fully functioning order, before continuing along the road. He was just about to round the bend when he noticed that Remus wasn't with him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the werewolf still sitting in the middle of the road, looking first the way Harry had gone and then the way the Winchesters had. "Lupin!" he hissed, "Get over here!"

Remus whined a little, but hurried to Snape's side.

When the pair rounded the bend in the road, they saw that the lack of guards at the gate was made up for by a pair of dark figures standing to either side of the stairs to the front door. This corresponded to the information Harry was able to gather earlier that day. If the nighttime reality remained true to its daytime counterpart, there would be another pair guarding the back door, and a final pair guarding a side entrance which opened to a large rose garden.

"Halt!" the shadow on the right called out, its stance revealing a wand pointed in Severus' general direction.

It was a voice with which Snape was familiar. "Hello, Amycus. Put the wand away before you hurt yourself."

"Good e'en, Severus," the shadow relaxed. "What brings you by so soon? I was under the impression that your invitation was set for next week."

Severus nodded and stopped at the base of the stairs. "It was, but if things are as I assume, then I've a gift of sorts for our Lord." He glanced over at the other shadow. "Alecto," he nodded in greeting and the witch nodded back.

"What sort of gift?" Amycus asked.

Severus raised an eyebrow and smirked, "A most obedient little wolf."

Alecto let out a low whistle, "So you did it then?"

Severus nodded, "Two years now. I continued working on it, purely for my own amusement, of course, but on receiving the invitation, I realized that perhaps all my hard work might have a use after all."

"It may at that," Alecto replied, looking over the seemingly docile Lupin. She exchanged a look with her brother who nodded in return. "I'll escort you to the Audience Chamber."

Though his expression had fallen back to his normal, slightly irritated mask of measured indifference, internally Severus had to roll his eyes. _I hope this works. Every time that wanker comes back from the dead, he gets more and more pretentious._ Following Alecto Carrow into the foyer of the large house, Severus' sharp ears heard a faint _thwack_, followed by a strangled gurgle, and a dim _thud_.

Remus' ears were sharper still than those of the former potions professor, and knew his first 'test' was _now_. He faked a wolfish sneeze. Either Alecto hadn't heard what had happened outside, or thought it originated from the wolf because she didn't comment and instead continued along a hall which ran through the center of the house without missing a beat.

She stopped outside the large double-doors which would have been the entrance to the mansion's ball room had the residents not been a Dark Lord and his minions. "Wait here, I'll announce your visit."

Once she'd disappeared through the doors, Severus allowed himself a momentary smile. _So far, so good._

* * *

Shortly after parting company with Severus and Remus, Sam and Dean found the edge of the forest. They waited and watched as Snape and the werewolf approached the two guards. Though they were too far away to see much more than shadows and they couldn't hear what was being said, they could both tell that all appeared to be going according to plan.

After the shorter of the two guard-shadows lead Severus and Lupin through the front door, Dean got out his bow and nocked a black arrow. He drew back, took aim, and let the arrow fly. It hit the remaining guard in the neck. The man was dead before either he or Sam could traverse the three hundred yards or so to the front stoop. On confirming that the man was, indeed, dead, Dean glanced at his brother, half-expecting to see a disapproving frown on Sam's face. What Dean saw instead was a combination of grim determination and approval, with something akin to satisfaction lingering in his eyes. _'How certain are you that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam?'_ flashed through Dean's mind. Dean forcibly pushed the memory away and resolved, once more, to talk to Sam about his weirdly out-of-character behavior.

Working quickly and quietly, they moved the guard's body into the deeper shadows under a holly bush that stood next to the stairs. Once that little detail was taken care of, Sam and Dean stood at the base of the steps for a moment. "Be careful, Sammy," Dean's whisper was barely loud enough for Sam to hear.

"You too."

They both nodded once, and Dean hurried around the side of the house, intent on finding the next pair of guards. Sam took a seat on the middle of the stairs, hoping that the combination of sitting and the shadows cast by the house behind him would disguise the fact that he wasn't the original guard. He also pulled the hood of his borrowed cloak up to cover his hair and unsheathed one of the knives he was carrying – a simple six-inch length of steel, nearly scalpel-sharp on one edge with a blunt back; it wasn't quite big enough to be a traditional hunting knife, like what would be used to bleed a deer in the fall, but was too big to be a mere pocketknife.

He only had to wait about fifteen minutes before the second guard returned alone. It surprised him to learn it was a woman, but it didn't deter him in the slightest from what he knew had to be done. "So Severus finally managed to sabotage the Wolfsbane. That's surprising, considering how long he worked on it prior to our Lord's lamentable temporary defeat," Sam waited until the woman's footsteps were directly behind him. She stopped on the stair three up from where Sam was sitting. "Amycus, are you listening to me?"

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything. The woman stepped down a single stair. _Now or never, Winchester_. He quickly rose to his feet and pivoted around to grab the woman. She drew in a breath to either scream or shout a warning, but Sam was quicker. The blade sliced across her neck with an odd ease. Were it not for the slight pressure pushing back on the knife, Sam wouldn't have known it had connected at all.

It took slightly longer for the woman to die than her male companion had, but Sam attributed that to the fact that the arrow had not lodged in the man's throat, but had slid between two vertebrae, coming to a halt with a good quarter inch of the arrowhead poking out of the back of the man's neck. When the woman finally stopped her struggles to breathe, Sam deposited her body next to that of the man, under the holly bush.

* * *

Despite his strong suspicions as to whom the Dark Lord was possessing, Severus still was a little shocked to see Daphne Greengrass seated in an ornate, serpent-themed 'throne'. She was still petite – that much hadn't changed in the years since she had left Hogwarts – but the glowing red eyes were new. _For her, at any rate._ "Ah, Severus. Come in, come in. Alecto tells me you finally achieved one of our noble goals?"

If a wolf could do so, Remus would have rolled his eyes at the question. As it was, he merely consigned himself to the fact that he likely wasn't going to enjoy what was sure to come.

Severus nodded and strode towards the… _thing_ on the chair. He knelt at its feet, "Yes, Milord. I have managed to adjust the Wolfsbane potion to allow for a level of imperius-like suggestibility."

"Fascinating," the woman who now served as nothing more than an elaborate set of clothes to Voldemort rose to her feet and approached the wolf. "I assume this particular specimen is Remus Lupin?"

"Yes, Milord. My position working with Dumbledore allowed me to cultivate a working relationship with the man and ensure his full cooperation with my experiments on the potion. Of course, he has no idea of the true nature of the experiments – I informed him I sought only to improve its efficiency."

"And being the trusting Gryffindor fool he is, he took you at your word."

"Yes, Milord."

"Will he do anything ordered?"

Severus took care in choosing his words – it was never good to tell the Dark Lord 'no'. "If it is within his physical capabilities, yes, Milord."

"I assume he does not remember what he does while in this form."

"Correct, Milord."

The Dark Lord, wearing Daphne's youthfully pretty face, grinned. "Show me, Severus."

_Showtime, _Remus thought. _I just hope he realizes that he's going to be stuck healing any injuries I end up with._

* * *

Dean peeked around the corner of the house and saw the next two targets standing to either side of a door approximately halfway down the length of the building. _How am I gonna do this?_ he pondered. _If I hit one, the other'll just run inside and raise the alarm. I know I can't hit both with one arrow, the bow doesn't have a high enough draw for a stunt like that. And the only time shooting two arrows at once actually works is when it's in the movies. Hmm... That might work. Even if it doesn't, I'll be able to get a second shot off a helluva lot quicker that way._

Dean retreated a step so as to be out of the line-of-sight of the two guards. He got out his Deanvention™ handgun and cocked it. He held it in his left hand, his fingers wrapping around both the gun and the grip for the bow, with his index finger resting in the trigger guard of the gun. He nocked an arrow and stepped fully around the corner.

He aimed the gun first. When the flash of light signaled it had fired properly, Dean didn't wait to see the results and loosed the arrow a split-second later.

Neither guard made a sound.

When Dean got to the door, he found that the only thing which remained of the guard he had aimed his gun at was a fragment of the man's left boot and the slight odor of burned flesh. The second guard had the feathered shaft of the arrow protruding from his right eye.

* * *

Though it had literally been years since he last felt anything from the scar on his forehead, Harry was prepared for the dull ache when it started. Likewise, when he located the back door to the Greengrass manor, he was ready for the pain to grow incrementally stronger the closer he came to the room wherein Voldemort was holding court.

The guards at the rear of the house hadn't been much of a problem. A couple of steel-tipped darts – from the very same kit which he had used mere days ago in playing Sam and Dean at the bar in Louisiana – dipped in one of Severus' strongest poisons had made sure of that.

Using the rise and fall of the pain in his head to triangulate the location of Voldemort, Harry slipped up the stairs to the second floor. He saw Sam come in the front door about the same time he reached the landing, and nodded to himself. As much as he hated plans on general principle, it appeared as though the Winchesters' idea was working.

Trusting that his fellow Hunters would be able to clear the house of any resident Death Eaters, and trusting that Snape and Remus could keep the Dark Lord busy, Harry sought out the room which would be directly above the ball room. Once the room was located – a study or library of some sort – he locked the door behind him with some of the strongest spells he knew and set to moving all the furniture out of his way. After that was done, he retrieved the shrunken box of supplies he'd need and set to drawing the necessary trap on the floor. By the time he was done, the similarities to the one he drew and the one which had bound Justine Espoir's spirit to her home in Leeville were obvious, though some of the smaller details were different.

With that part of the preparations completed, Harry took a seat on the floor outside the outermost circle of the trap and waited for his cue.

* * *

Sam and Dean met up, as planned, in roughly the center of the hallway which linked the front door to the back. After a mutual affirmation that they were unharmed thus far, they headed up the stairs. Sam took the topmost level, while Dean searched the third floor.

Sam found nothing to worry about on the attic level of the house, but Dean wasn't as lucky. The majority of the third floor of the house had been converted over to interconnecting living, sleeping, and dining areas. The only 'lucky' break was that of the ten or so dormitory-style rooms, only two were occupied. Each of the dormers held six beds, and a third room held evidence that it was lived in, but Dean reasoned that its occupants were likely the guards which had already been dealt with. Mentally marking the location of the two other occupied rooms, he headed back to the staircase to wait for Sam.

When Sam arrived, the two of them made their way back through the maze of rooms. Dean got out his jar containing the bleach and vial of ammonia and cracked the first room's door open. Neither of the room's two windows were open. Dean grinned at Sam, who nodded. Dean threw the jar into the room and hoped it landed hard enough to break the delicate glass vial within, so the two liquids could mix and create chlorine gas. He didn't look to find out, though, and merely stepped out of Sam's way while the younger Winchester quickly picked the lock to secure the door.

Sam was somewhat amazed that the sound of the jar breaking didn't wake any of the sleeping baddies, but he couldn't know that that particular room was where Walden Macnair slept, nor that the man snored so badly that his roommates all put up silencing charms around their beds.

When they tried the same thing in the second room, several of the occupants woke to the sound of the breaking jar. A silvery form shot through the door, but Dean managed to hit the thing with a nearly-instinctual pull from his modified gun. The magic bolt from the gun and the vaguely feline silver form exploded in a soundless flash of light that left little spots dancing in the Winchester's vision. This didn't stop them from hearing the noise inside the dormitory room – someone called for a window to be opened and there was a shuffle of footsteps rushing to comply followed shortly thereafter by a quick couple of Latin words and the sound of wind.

Dean sighed, their plan had finally hit a snag. Sam echoed the sigh and got out his own version of the magical ray-gun. Dean motioned that he would take the right side of the room and Sam should go left. Sam nodded and Dean, in true Dean-style, kicked the door open.

Working in tandem, Dean shot the only resident of the room who actually had a wand in hand first while Sam hit the woman with the long, curly black hair who was reaching for hers. Next to go was the man standing near the window and another man who hadn't learned from the woman's example and was reaching for his wand. Last to go was the man who was more than half-tangled in his own bedsheets and the woman who was still sleeping soundly.

With the third floor cleared, the brothers headed down the staircase to the second story, hoping to avoid a repeat performance.

Whatever gods looked after Hunters were apparently listening, because the only thing they found on the second floor was the locked room wherein Harry was waiting; it was marked with a tiny, almost unnoticeable chalk 'H' in the lowermost right corner. Sam knocked on it to let Harry know they were mostly done with searching the house.

By the time they'd finished up searching the main floor and the basement, it was practically all over, save for the shouting.

* * *

On hearing the knock at the door, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He placed the Aroliantivashi on the floor in the center of the trap before standing outside its concentric rings of writing. He removed the paper on which the incantation was written. Before starting to read it, however, he took a moment to center himself. "This is for you, Ginny. For you and everyone else whose lives this bastard has destroyed."

He then began to read.

* * *

Severus and Remus were putting on a stellar performance for the Dark Lord. Really, if an award for this type of situation were made available from the Academy, then they would have won hands-down.

Remus was tired and sore, but somewhat proud of the fact that he could still do a somersault while in wolf form.

Severus was getting a monster of a headache from the heavy use of his occlumency – something which he'd not had to use with any regularity for going on ten years now.

Their first indication that Harry was being successful was that the glowing red of Voldemort's eyes was flickering, indicating that he was fighting the power of the spell intended to remove him from his host.

Their second indication came when the man wearing Daphne's body sprang to his feet and made to run out of the room. He/she only got about three feet before bouncing off the edge of the containment circle drawn on the floor of the room directly above.

Severus dropped his occlumency and approached the girl's body. "Having problems, _Milord_?" Sarcasm had long been Severus' preferred weapon, and his latest volley hit home.

What followed was a confusing cacophony of half-finished threats and abortive attempts to reach for his wand – it was obvious that Daphne, who had either given up fighting or not fought the Dark Lord at all, had decided that enough was enough and was trying to regain control of her own body. "Get out, you half-blood bastard!" was shouted in a moment where her eyes were a normal shade of brown. "You'll pay for your treachery, Severus!" hissed in a voice whose tone was bordering on parseltongue.

While both Severus and Remus watched from a safe distance, Voldemort and Daphne continued battling within the spell-set circle. She bounced off the confines of the trap several times, and Voldemort managed to gain control of the wand for a split-second, but when Daphne reasserted herself, she threw it outside the boundary of the trap.

Roughly twenty minutes after Voldemort and Daphne started their fight, Harry – one floor above them – came to the end of the incantation to remove the Dark Lord from his host.

Tendrils of what could only be described as grey smoke were seeping from the woman's pores. Their battle halted as they both raised an arm to see more clearly what was going on, the momentary cooperation mirrored in their face as one eye was Daphne's and the other glowed red. Daphne didn't know what, precisely, was going on, but Voldemort _did_, and linked as they were, that knowledge soon seeped over into Daphne's consciousness. Her control, which had steadily been growing stronger the longer they fought, was almost back to where it was before she had become the Dark Lord's latest vehicle. She laughed and stepped backwards.

Voldemort, desperate to hold on to a nearly perfect host, tried to reassert his will, but found that there was nothing to control. Daphne now stood on the outside of the barrier. "Fuck you, you bastard," she growled at him before spitting where his face should have been.

The swirling confluence of smoke, holding a vague manlike shape, and sporting two glowing red embers for eyes, immediately lost its form and swirled upwards, disappearing into the room above the ball room.

Daphne promptly fainted.

* * *

Harry finished the incantation to separate Voldemort from Daphne and quickly set to saying the spell to trap the wraithlike specter of the Dark Lord within the stone bottle. This spell wasn't nearly so long as the separation one, but it had to be repeated three times. On finishing the last syllable, grey smoke poured upwards from the floor and was quickly sucked into the bottle. Wasting no time, Harry screwed the cap onto the Aroliantivashi. He found it a minor point of curiosity that the bottle, normally a dull brown color, was now a uniform smoky grey.

Carrying the bottle in one hand and his wand in the other, Harry dismantled the spells with which he'd locked the door and cleaned up the chalk marks on the floor. He replaced all the furniture back where it was positioned originally and then headed down the stairs. Glancing at his watch, he found that it was just past one in the morning. _That didn't take as long as I'd assumed._

Harry was the first one back to the gate, though it was only a wait of about five minutes before Severus and Remus joined him, Severus levitating Daphne at the end of his wand. Approximately half an hour later, Sam and Dean appeared; both looking a little ill. The Winchesters didn't volunteer what they'd seen, but Harry and Snape didn't have to ask. It didn't take much imagination for either Severus or Harry to picture what they must have found in the dungeon of the Greengrass house – after all, Draco had admitted that his main duty to the Dark Lord had consisted of locating muggles on which Voldemort used any number of dark magics to siphon their anima.

The trip back to Remus' house didn't take long and was completed in almost total silence.

It didn't really hit Harry until Snape lowered Daphne onto Remus' sofa just what they'd managed to accomplish that night.

"I finally did it," Harry said, matter-of-factly. "Sure, there's a couple of loose ends to wrap up, but…" He was cycling between red and white, his emotions running slipshod over him.

"Dude," Dean interrupted, "sit down before you fall down."

* * *

**A/N2:** According to IMDB, Jensen Ackles (Dean) and Alan Rickman (Snape) are the same height (6'1"), as are Jared Padalecki (Sam) and David Thewlis (Lupin)(6'4"), so I didn't think it would be too much of a stretch for borrowed robes to fit reasonably well.

Oh, and my move to Texas is now complete! (Well, I'm here, at any rate. Still need to do a couple of other pesky things like transfer my license, get my motorcycle transferred to my name so I can sell it and get the one I actually want, and find a job, but other than that, I'm good!) It went rather well – I appear to have only lost a couple of things (including, oddly enough, all of my clean underwear, which I could have _sworn_ I'd packed with the rest of my clean clothes), and we only encountered one delay in driving down (when the moving rental suffered some engine problems). All-in-all, not bad for roughly 1300 miles! Thanks for the well-wishes – I think they helped (and I hope not to drive across Oklahoma _ever again_ – nothing against the people, really, but the state itself is so monumentally _dull_, right up there with Nebraska in terms of interesting things to see while on the road).

Reviews are the only repayment a fanfiction author receives for her time and effort, so please, support your local supplier of literary crack and press that lovely little button!


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** This is the last chapter (excluding the epilogue) for TiC. As the third and final installment of this series is still in notes, I have no idea when it will start to be posted, but if all goes well, the epilogue for _this_ part should be up within a week at the most (but I've been _very_ wrong on time like that before, so I'm not promising anything!)

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_Tying up loose ends…_

It was how she imagined swimming in a vat of marshmallow fluff might feel, sluggish, slow, and somewhat comforting in the nearly weightless dark. She should wake up, she knew this, but it had just been so _long_ since she'd been able to have a good sleep, not plagued with nightmarish visions or red eyes coupled with a sibilate voice. Her mind turned off those thoughts before they could really get going. _Where am I?_ she wondered. _That's right, the hotel. I should probably get up and get ready to go, or else that woman will end up charging me for another night and I know Harry's not here. Hasn't ever been, never will be. But five more minutes can't hurt anything, can they?_

She tried to dive back into the comforting softness of her absence of dreams, only to be pursued by a nagging feeling she was forgetting something. It wasn't long before distant voices started echoing through the dark. She wanted to pull her pillow up over her head, but just couldn't drum up the necessary effort to do so. Every now and then a word or phrase echoed loud enough for her to make out. She wanted to yell at them to shut up, but, like with moving her arms, she just couldn't gather the requisite energy.

"…can't believe…years…go home…" _Odd, that sounds like Harry. But Harry's not here. Never has been. Have to tell Susan when I wake up. Colin, too. Wonder if they've heard back from Terry?_

"…should get some sleep…Bobby…Impala…" _Who's that? Don't know. Sounds American though. Wonder if he knows Terry?_

Slowly but surely, the voices were pulling her closer and closer to consciousness. Bit by bit, fragments of memory started to filter into her head, chasing away the confusion left behind by sleeping so soundly.

_She stepped outside, readjusting her pack on her shoulder and headed down the cobblestone road, bordered on either side by buildings almost as old as the wizarding world itself. The cobbles stopped at the edge of town, as did the town's protective anti-apparation barriers, but before she could apparate to her next destination, something swirled out from under a shrub and everything went dark._

"…she doing, Severus?" _That voice is familiar. Where do I know it from?_

_Laughter heralded her waking. Cold, manic laughter that wasn't so much an expression of joy as one of poisoned irony. "If your parents could but see you now, child. I'm sure you would be welcomed back with open arms." It was her voice, but not. It was darker. Both more and less than all of what she was. She caught a half-glimpsed view of herself in a mirror and though she could have sworn she shuddered, her reflection remained sitting stone-still. The laughter bubbled up again. "Sleep."_

_When she woke again, she was standing already. Her wand was in her hand, and the remains of a once-beautiful woman lay in ruins at her feet. She willingly fell back into the darkness, but the blood followed her. Haunted her._

_Another flash of awareness, but this time there wasn't any blood – only bones, thank Merlin. Bones and water and stone. The next time though… Screams. Screaming and fire and more blood than could possibly have come from a single person. And all though it, the whispers. Her voice, but not. Going on and on and on about how beautiful it was all falling into place soon nothing was going to get in her way the world would soon be hers. Soon. Soon…_

"…waking up soon…" _Professor? What are you doing in hell?_

_Pain. Both hers and not hers, like the voice. Sharp and sudden, then gone. Awareness of what was going on starting to filter into her mind. Horror._

"…do much else…if she gets worse…" _No, not hell. Not any more. Can't be, can it?_

_Smoke and fighting and finally free._

_Finally free._

_Free._

She opened her eyes, the sudden influx of light stabbed through her head in a brilliant white flair of visual noise before fading a little, evening out, and revealing the room in which she lay. It was unfamiliar, but comfortable nonetheless. There were some short shelves in her line of vision, standing to either side of one of those muggle things Hannah was always complaining about the lack of in the wizarding world.

A patch of sunlight, crossed through with lines of shadow cast by the window lattice, backlit someone sitting in an overstuffed, low sofa not far from her head. She squinted a little and saw that the man was reading a book – a muggle publication from the look of it. Were it not for the picture sitting on top of the television – oddly, showing a guy sporting day-glow green hair, wand out and charging the photographer – she would have assumed she'd woken in a muggle's home. _Not muggle. Probably muggle-born, though._

The man shifted a little before suddenly putting the book down. "Hey," he said, moving so he was no longer backlit by the window. He had a really nice smile – perfect, straight, white teeth and an adorable dimple. It went rather well with his shaggy brown hair and hazel eyes. "Feeling better?" he asked.

Daphne nodded, returning his smile, though hers felt odd on her face, like those muscles hadn't been used in far too long. "Yes, thank you." She felt rather weak, like when she'd had Dragon Pox as a child, but she couldn't remember being ill recently. Aside from the obvious, of course, but she didn't think that really counted.

Seeing that she wanted to sit up, the man helped her. Once she was settled back against a pile of fluffy pillows, she cleared her throat a little. He handed her a small glass of water. "Thanks," she sipped at it. "Um… not to sound ungrateful, but… Where am I? Who are you? What happened to…" she couldn't finish the question.

The man's brow furrowed a little and Daphne could tell he was figuring out where to begin. "I'm Sam," he said after a moment. "Sam Winchester. We're at a friend's house. What do you remember?"

She shrugged a little, looking down at her hands, "Not much, but at the same time, _far_ too much. It's all jumbled. He…" She looked straight at where Sam was still kneeling near the sofa, "He's really gone, isn't he?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, he is."

Daphne couldn't help it; she broke down into sobs of relief. She felt him sit next to her and take the glass from her hands before it could spill. A warm arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her closer to his side. Just as her tears were finishing up running their course, something occurred to her. Wiping her face with her hands, she took a deep breath. "How? How could you…" Her eyes widened somewhat. "Unless… Harry's _here_, isn't he?" She meant to grab his shirt and demand that he tell her, but her grip was beyond weak. Pathetic was a more apt description.

Sam easily untangled her fingers from the front of his shirt. "Yeah, Harry's around here someplace. You want me to get him for you?"

_All this time looking, searching, and finding nothing and…_ Daphne nodded, "Yes. Please."

* * *

"Knut for your thoughts?" Remus refilled his tea cup and set to making lunch. Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, idly doodling on a piece of notebook paper while Sam took his turn watching over Daphne. Harry was still sleeping in his room.

Dean shook his head a little and sat the pen down. "Just wondering about some stuff, Remus. Nothing serious."

Remus huffed out a snort of laughter. "Nice try, want to pull the other one now? You're worried about something; I can see it on your face."

"That bow…"

"What of it?" Remus prompted, getting out the supplies to make grilled-cheese sandwiches.

"Last night… I'm a good shot, Remus. I know I am. But even I can't hit someone's eye at close to three hundred feet in the dark."

Remus smiled at the Hunter and set to buttering bread slices. "It's a magical artifact, Dean. What did you think it would do to your aim, make it worse?" Dean frowned, and Remus continued, "Most magical artifacts respond to the intent, as well as the skill of whomever wields them. Last night, you weren't after taking captives, right?" Dean nodded. "So, it gave you an edge in making sure you reached your objective. Nothing at all to be concerned over." Some of the tension in Dean's posture relaxed a little. "What else were you contemplating?"

Dean echoed Remus' earlier snort of laughter. "Sam."

"What about him?" With all the bread slices buttered, Remus started slicing cheese.

"He's not been acting like himself lately."

"How so?"

Dean shook his head, "It's a bunch of little things."

"Like what?"

"Oh, like the fact that he's been… I dunno… Just not _Sam_ during this Hunt."

Remus took the slices of cheese and arranged them on the bread. "Can you give me specifics? I might be able to help."

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face, "I don't know if I can explain it, Remus. He's been… I guess, 'intense' is the only word that really springs to mind, but that's not right. Sam's been intense before, but this is different. And when he's not focusing on something to do with this Hunt, he's been far more cheerful than I can remember him being for a long, long time."

Remus pushed away the urge to grin at Dean. He was pretty sure he knew the source of Sam's seemingly out-of-character behavior, but it wasn't his place to tell Dean. Instead, he aimed his wand at the platter of sandwiches and in a flick of golden light, they were steaming slightly and the perfect shade of golden brown. "You're worried that your brother is _happy_?"

Dean groaned, "Don't say it like that – you make me sound like a whackjob."

"You don't need Remus' help for _that_," Sam interrupted the conversation, leaning on the doorframe to the kitchen. Dean startled slightly, but Sam chose not to comment on it. "Daphne woke up, wants to talk to Harry."

"He's still sleeping," Remus replied, splitting the platter of sandwiches into three, unequal portions. The smallest two were transferred to a tray which had a pitcher and some glasses sitting on it. "I'll go wake him. I think the two of you have some talking to do."

Leaving the largest platter of sandwiches on the table, Remus carried the tray out of the room. Once he was gone, Dean sighed and took a good look at Sam. "Just how much of that did you hear?"

Sam snagged a sandwich off the plate and hunted out a glass and some juice before replying. "Depends on how long the two of you were talking. I came in right around when you were explaining how you think it's weird that I've been in a pretty good mood lately."

Dean, already halfway through his own sandwich, sighed. "Just why is that?"

Sam shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you, Dean."

Dean managed – just barely – to keep from rolling his eyes. "Fine, if you don't want to talk about that, could you at least tell me what's goin' on in that freaky skull of yours? You've been actin' like this Hunt's the most important thing on the planet."

_But it is, Dean, and not just because the spirit involved wanted world domination._ Out loud, Sam said, "If you'd seen Ginny, you'd understand. No one should have _that_ happen to them."

Dean narrowed his eyes and watched as Sam quickly polished off his sandwich and juice before heading to some other part of the house. _True, _he thought, _just not the whole truth. What's going on with you, Sammy, and why won't you talk to me? Used to be I couldn't keep your mouth shut with superglue and duct tape. Now, though… _Dean growled quietly in frustration and tore into another sandwich.

* * *

It didn't take much to wake Harry, and roughly half an hour later, he was awake, showered, and dressed in his grey _Property of the Central Intelligence Agency_ sweatshirt and a pair of comfortable, broke-in jeans. Daphne had apparently decided to nap while waiting for him. She woke when he took a seat on the second sofa, set at an angle to the television. The first thing she said was, "We've been looking for you for _ages_."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, "By 'we' you mean…?"

"Me, Colin, Terry, and Susan. There's a few more who helped when they could, but we were the main group."

Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, "Um… Why?" He half-expected her to answer with something regarding the price the Ministry had on his head. As such, he wasn't prepared at all for what she actually said. He shook his head as though to dislodge water from his ears and had to ask her to repeat what she'd said.

"I said that we didn't believe the _Prophet_. What they said, back then… It just didn't mesh with what we knew of you." Daphne had to chuckle at the expression on Harry's face. "No, despite the fact that Colin's one of us, it had _nothing_ to do with your fan-club, Harry. Maybe it would have, had we never met you, gone to school with you. No, we started looking out for you back when we heard that Ron had gotten killed. Unfortunately, I don't think we did such a bang-up job, what with what happened to Ginny and how you just took off… But we _tried_, which is a hell of a lot more than anyone else we went to school with thought to do."

This wasn't making much sense to Harry, and he said as much. Daphne sighed and tried to explain it a bit better. Partway through, Harry summoned some water for her. Daphne explained how the four of them had tried to keep Harry safe from his 'fans' at school, about how, since Terry and Hannah had both been prefects, they tried to keep one or the other of them close by whenever Harry went wandering the halls late at night. Harry could sort-of remember the weeks just prior to his last encounter with Voldemort – excepting the previous night, of course – and now that he thought about it, he could remember how one of the four of them was _always_ in whatever room he happened to be in, or 'on patrol' in whatever part of the castle he walked when sleeping got to be too hard. He could remember a little more clearly how Colin and Dennis often ended up sleeping in the common room. It was probably how Terry and Hannah knew that he was up and about at night. She further explained how her support of him, quiet though it may have been, had lead to her break with her parents and how her older brother had been named in their will, regardless of his squib status.

The picture she painted gave Harry food for thought. All this time, he'd had loyal support right here in England, but he hadn't known. He hadn't _known_. They never told him, and then he was gone to the US. His trick of staying one step ahead of disgruntled Death Eaters and bounty hunters had likewise kept them from finding him.

Daphne went on to explain how, following up on rumors of a Harry-sighting in the wilds of Romania, she ended up playing host to Voldemort. She didn't know everything the dark wizard did while using her, but she remembered enough that Harry was positive she would end up with nightmares for a long time to come.

"Why were you searching for me, even after we all thought he was dead?" Harry just couldn't figure that part out.

"Because we weren't convinced he was gone for good. I don't know if you knew it or not, but even after all the ash and char was sorted through, no one could find any evidence that he'd been there that night. All we had to go on was eye-witness reports and lots of rumors. Besides," she gave him an odd half-smile, "he'd disappeared before, and none of us wanted to repeat our parents' mistakes. Turns out we were right."

"For what it's worth, I wish you hadn't been."

"For what it's worth, me too." She finished her glass of water and Harry refilled it. "So… I know it's really none of my business, but now that he's really gone, gone for good… What are you going to do?"

Harry could see that she wanted him to say that he was coming back, maybe that he was going to take over the Ministry and straighten it out. He didn't want to disappoint her, but he felt that honesty would best serve the circumstances. _After all, she's been honest with me._ "Sorry, Daphne, but I'm going to go home. I've got this job I love and this place," it was obvious he meant the UK in general, not specifically the house, "it doesn't hold anything for me anymore. I can't stay. I've got people relying on me to do something…" Harry trailed off; it really wasn't any business of Daphne's what was going on between him and the Winchesters. "I can't stay," he repeated.

"You've got people here, too, Harry," Daphne couldn't believe what she was hearing. It seemed impossible to her that the Harry she remembered from Hogwarts would turn his back on his heritage. "Not just me and Colin and Terry and Susan, but the rest of the wizarding world. We _need_ you here, Harry. Things have gotten so screwed up… You can fix it. We _know_ you could fix it if you just came back."

Harry shook his head and smiled sadly at her, "No, Daphne, I _can't_. I know you and the rest have been looking for me for a long time, but it doesn't change much. Maybe if you all had come to me while I was still at Hogwarts, things could have been different. But you didn't. And now, I've got my own life. Granted, it may not be much of a life, but it's still _mine_." He hated to do it, but he could tell that little else would make an impression past the, in his opinion, undeserved hero-worship. "Look, Daphne. I can't and I _won't_ solve all the world's problems. This thing between me and Voldemort," he paused for a moment, the inconcessufamens spell a mere shadow of its former self, not unlike the wizard who had set it, "it was set from before I was born. I didn't have any choice in it. The Ministry being such a mess isn't my problem, and I'm not going to fix it. If things are so bad, instead of spending all your energy looking for me, why don't you four work to solve what's wrong? Nothing you say can make me stay here, and you _know_ you won't find me again – not unless I _want_ to be found."

Before Daphne could respond, Harry removed himself from the sofa and paused before leaving her line-of-sight. "Remus said you're welcome to stay until you're back on your feet, but I'm going to be leaving either tonight or tomorrow. I hope you actually listened to me, but I suppose only time will tell."

* * *

Once Harry was done speaking with Daphne, it didn't take him long to get packed. Though he knew he could call the crossroads demon to finish their deal just as easily in London as he could back in the states, he didn't want to spend more time than absolutely necessary in the UK.

Dean and Sam were already packed. In truth, they rarely took the time to unpack, regardless of where they were staying or how long they planned to be there. There had been far too many times, particularly when they were kids, when they'd had to leave unexpectedly, and each time that had happened, _something_ always managed to get left behind. So, when Harry located first Dean – in the kitchen, which Harry was pretty sure was ironic in some as-yet-unidentifiable way – and then Sam – in Remus' den, finishing the last few pages of the novel he'd been reading – they both stated, in nearly-identical phrasing that belied their common upbringing, that they were ready to leave whenever Harry was.

The goodbyes to Lupin were short, but heartfelt. He let the Winchesters know they were welcome back at any time, and made a passing comment that they just might end up in one of his future tales. Sam made sure to get the werewolf to promise to send him a copy if that ever actually happened. Remus agreed before admonishing Dean to remember what he said about 'other sources'. That statement proved to be as puzzling to Sam as the following statement of 'let me know how it goes', addressed to both Harry and Sam, was to Dean.

Harry went through the floo network first, followed by Sam and then Dean. Instead of going directly to Bobby's – as no one had thought to call ahead, and none of them really wanted to end up shot, particularly since, unbelievably enough, no one sustained any major injuries the night before – they went to Leanne's Manhattan apartment. Leanne wasn't home, but Harry knew he had a standing invitation to her place. He left her a note letting her know they'd dropped by and that he would call her later before Sam dug out his cell and rang up Bobby to let the man know they were on their way back.

* * *

**A/N2:** I know it's a bit on the short side, but there really wasn't all that much more to be said in this particular story. All that remains is the epilogue (I'm sure you all can guess what scene is going to go _there_!) It's been a wild ride, and I find I'm loving the concept of the combined SPN/HP universe _very_ much. So much so that I've got an idea for a total AU wherein Remus raises Harry in the US and very early on meets John Winchester. No idea when I'll start writing it, but keep an eye out!

I really hope that the bit with Daphne filled in some of the blank places, but I worry that it isn't as clear as I assume. Let me know how I did, yeah?

Reviews make me write faster, you know. (Grin!)


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. This story is also based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And this, my dear readers, is the very end of 'Twice is Circumstance'. I hope you all liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As I mentioned in the previous chapter's A/N, the third and final installment in this story arc is still in notes, and I don't know when I'll be getting it ready for posting. Thanks for reading, everyone, and I hope to see you all again when I get to 'Three Times is Enemy Action'. Feel free to speculate on what the story will involve – who knows, I just might have folks who guess right make cameos in the final installment of this universe!

* * *

**Twice is Circumstance**

_3:19 pm, October 27, 2007  
Singer Salvage Yard  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

It was good to be home. Dean was happy that he was back because he'd gone almost an entire _week_ without even seeing his precious car, let alone driving it anywhere. As soon as he got some sleep, he was going to make it up to her – a full tune-up, a tank of premium, and a long wash, complete with detailing. Sure, he _could_ start on that now, but he knew Bobby wouldn't want to wait for him to finish with the Impala before hearing his version of the events in the UK.

Sam was ecstatic to be home because that meant there were only a few, short hours remaining before Harry brought an end to Dean's contract. _It's odd,_ a random thought flitted across Sam's mind as Bobby greeted everyone, _most people would rather know for sure when their time is up. I think I prefer not knowing. It lets us believe in tomorrow. A forever of tomorrows, even._

Harry was just glad to be back in a country where he wasn't on the government's most-wanted list.

As expected, Bobby provided beer, and later, ignoring the chilly weather outside, grilled up burgers, brats, and steak. Not the healthiest dinner by any stretch of the imagination, but tasty and well-deserved all the same. Dean, Harry, and Sam took it in turns to describe what they'd done while in the UK. Bobby was probably more amused than he should have been at the descriptions of Hermione. As their tale wound to a close, Dean cracked open another beer and set to trimming a willow withe so that he could 'torture some marshmallows into roasted gooeyness'. He felt it nearly criminal that Harry'd never had s'mores, 'the only good thing about camping, and the absolute _best_ thing about a barbecue'. "Hmm…" he mused aloud as he stripped the thin bark.

"'Hmm' what?" Harry asked, feeling warmly content in spite of the cool evening air.

"Just wondering," Dean finished the bark and set to sharpening the thinner end, "now that you've got that mofo's soul in that bottle, what're ya gonna do with it? I don't recall anyone saying what we were gonna do with it now that we've got it." Though his attention was seemingly focused on the soon-to-be skewer of gooey goodness, Dean didn't miss the meaningful glances that passed among Harry, Sam, and Bobby. _They're up to something_, echoed in his head.

His thoughts were confirmed when Harry shrugged a little, "I'll think of something. If I can't come up with anything on my own, there's a ritual that will destroy Riddle completely. I don't want to go that route if I can avoid it though. The ritual is hella complicated and takes a full lunar cycle to complete." The left corner of Harry's mouth was pulled back in the most infinitesimal of smirks, a sure sign the man was lying about his plans for the bottle's contents; any poker player worth his chips would have been able to spot the tell.

Dean nodded and let the topic drop, mentally noting to keep a close eye on his three fellows until he managed to uncover the truth. He skewered three marshmallows on the end of his roasting stick and kicked back a little, slowly rotating the sugary goodness over the glowing charcoal in the grill so that it would toast evenly and not burn. _Just about the only thing I can think of that none of them would talk to me about is, well, me. I don't think I'm being selfish or egocentric or whatever thinking that, it's just the way it is. I know I tend to fly off the handle a little whenever Sammy brings up the deal, but… She said, 'If you try to welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off. Sam drops dead. He's back to rotten meat in no time.' I know I've told Sammy the exact wording of that deal…_

He was startled from his musings as Harry's attempt to roast a marshmallow suddenly caught fire. "Blast, bugger, and damnation!"

"Hand it here, kiddo, I don't mind the high-brown ones," Bobby traded skewers with Harry while Dean and Sam laughed at their friend's unsuccessful roasting attempt.

"Hold it a little further from the coals, Harry," Sam advised.

Letting the smile remain on his face, Dean returned to his thoughts. _Could Sammy have told Harry the exact deal? I know I gave the gist of it a couple of weeks ago, but could Sammy have let him know the specifics? It's likely. Sammy's been wearing himself out looking for a way out of it. It wouldn't be like him to ignore a possible source, and Harry knows about different things than we do._

Dean transferred his now-roasted marshmallow onto a waiting graham cracker and chocolate square before smushing it down with another cracker. It oozed out the sides and generally made a sticky mess of his hand, at which Sam rolled his eyes good-naturedly – the gesture communicating more clearly than words 'some things never change'. Dean licked the escaping globs of goo before crunching into his s'more, all the while compiling a mental list.

_Okay, so I'm almost positive Sammy's told Harry about the deal, right down to the exact words. Still doesn't explain why he's not telling me the plans for the bottle._

_It's not the bottle, though. It's what's _inside_ the bottle. An evil soul._

Dean polished off his s'more and set to roasting three more marshmallows for another one. He noticed that Harry seemed to have gotten the knack for not burning them and was nibbling on his own while trading jokes with Bobby. Every now and then Sam would pipe up with one he knew. _You know, it's really good to see Sammy acting more like the Sammy I remember from before Stanford._ Regardless of his internal trains of thought, he couldn't keep the smile off his face. Sam was happy, thus Dean was happy.

_Anyway, back to the task at hand. So, point one: Sammy told Harry the specifics of the deal. Point two: Harry said that the soul in that damn bottle was truly evil. Not just that, though. He'd been after immortality. That's something… Demons feed on the evil present in souls, as well as the pain and whatnot – at least, that's what all the books say. So, if that Voldemort-sucker was cheating death and not going to Hell like he was supposed to, then the demons would have been deprived of feeding on his evil. There's a thought – which would be more important to Hell; my soul or Voldemort's?_

_But, if that was their plan, to trade Voldemort for me, then wouldn't that be welching on it? 'If you try to welch or weasel your way out…'_ Dean's thoughts came to an abrupt halt. _'If you try'. She was talking to _me_. Not to Sammy. Definitely not to Bobby or Harry or anyone else. To _me_. 'If _you_ try'. She never said anything about anyone else trying._ Dean let out an amused bark of laughter, though it was directed at his own blindness in not seeing the loophole earlier and not the joke Bobby had just told the punchline for. _That's it. Gotta be._ He felt a little surge of pride, just like every time he managed to figure out their Hunt ahead of Sam. He assembled his second s'more and joined in the joke-a-thon. "You guys ever hear the one about the insurance adjuster's wife?"

* * *

_2:32 am, October 28, 2007  
Corner of Rural Route 9 and Oak Road  
Outside Pierre, South Dakota_

"I was wondering when I'd see you again."

Harry turned around and mentally sighed. "I told you before – I keep my promises," the night was chilly and his words were given a physical presence of white fog, illuminated by the just-past-full moon high in the clear sky. He was starting to see why Hunters didn't much care for demons, even ignoring that whole evil-from-the-pits-of-hell-factor. This time, the crossroads demon was wearing the body of a slim brunette.

"So, am I to assume you've managed to capture Riddle's soul for me?"

Harry nodded, "I did." He looked down at his boots for a moment before meeting the demon's eyes, "Before I hand it over, though… There's just one, little thing I want from you."

She tutted, "Sorry, honey. You know I can't deal with you. I'm in enough trouble with my boss over this whole Dean-and-Riddle thing."

Harry smiled a tight grin, "That's fine. It's not a deal, just a little piece of information." She made a 'go on, I'm listening' gesture. "Where can I find Lucius Malfoy? He and I have some unfinished business."

The demon shook her head sadly, "Sorry, sweetheart, but I don't know. If it's any consolation, he does have a special seat reserved downstairs."

Harry's expression brightened slightly, "Well, that is something."

"And now, Riddle?"

Harry nodded and walked a few feet away from the center of the crossroads, where he had smoothed the dirt and inscribed a septagram, circled by rings of concentric writing. The Aroliantivashi sat in the precise middle of the design.

"That's not a devil's trap," the demon observed. "What is it?"

Harry found it surprising that she'd not recognized the spirit trap pattern, but kept it from his face. "It's a spirit trap. Wouldn't want all my hard work in capturing Riddle to go to waste, and I doubt you'd be all that happy if he managed to escape at this point."

Harry used his wand and a simple charm to uncork the bottle. Oily, gray smoke started boiling up out of it. In short order, the bottle was empty and back to its normal dull brown color. The smoke floated aimlessly for a moment before it moved swiftly to escape, only to splash harmlessly on the edge of the trap. Harry glanced at the demon only to see an amused smile on her face. "He's all yours," Harry said, his tone indicating a light puzzlement as to why she was just standing there watching.

"Just a moment, Harry. I want to savor this." She didn't take her eyes off of Voldemort's soul as the gray cloud flattened out and felt along the edges of the trap for a way out.

Harry was just about to say something when the demon threw back her head and escaped the body of her host in a roiling mass of black smoke. The new cloud threw itself at the Voldemort-cloud within the trap. Bands of black encircled the gray and, almost before Harry had realized what was going on, the black was seeping into the earth, dragging the struggling gray with it. When the last of the smoke disappeared, Harry brushed away the design drawn in the dust. _Well, that's half a life-debt paid._

Finished with the trap, Harry turned his attention to the brunette who had been the crossroads demon's suit-of-choice for the evening. According to the address on the ID in her purse, she lived only a couple of miles away. He couldn't find anything wrong with her, physically, despite the fact she was unconscious, and so charmed one of her earrings as a single-use portkey to take her home.

Whistling to himself, Harry pulled his motorcycle jacket a little tighter around himself and began the half-mile hike back to Bobby's.

Dean waited until the slightly out-of-tune version of some piece of classical he'd never bothered to learn the name of faded away before emerging from the tightly-packed shadows of three tall pine trees that grew at the northeast corner of the crossroads. _I was right_, he thought, referring to his mental acrobatics of just a few hours earlier. "I was right." He repeated it, whispering the fact to the empty crossroads. A smug smile threatened to split his face in half.

_Finite Incantatem_

* * *

**A/N2:** I know some of you might be disappointed that the epilogue focused so much on Dean, but Sam just didn't have anything to add to this story. Besides, I needed a bit of happy fluff to counterbalance the cloud of demonic angst that's been hovering over my head since the final scene of the finale.

Review to let me know what you thought of this story and, if you're so inclined, to put forth your theories on what's to come in part three!


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